


As unchanging as the sea

by BlueAlmond



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Relationships, F/F, F/M, Getting Back Together, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pseudo-History, Romance, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-09-25 20:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 95,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueAlmond/pseuds/BlueAlmond
Summary: Thirty years after his imprisonment, Grindelwald escapes.Authorities are busy worrying about him, but Albus Dumbledore knows that whoever managed to break him out of prison surely is about to become a menace to the world.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start, I tagged this as Canon Divergence. Well, it would be canon compliant up until early September of 1899, sort of, at least when it comes to Albus Dumbledore’s and Gellert Grindelwald’s lives. However, I’ll be using a number of characters that shouldn’t even be alive yet, just so you know. Because I love them. And trust me, it’ll make sense. I have a very detailed timeline for this story, so if you ever want to know when a character was supposed to be born, I'll have an answer for you :)

** _Nurmengard Castle, Austria. 13 October 1935._ **

At age fifty-three, the man that once planned to rule the world —and could’ve done it, he is certain— has a simple routine that consists mostly of reading and writing. He’s spent more than half his life in prison, and he rarely wastes his excessive time missing the things he knows he’ll never have. No, he stopped doing that about twenty-three years ago. His life is not so bad, he thinks each morning as he reads the papers, both magic and muggle, because he has the time, and he’s almost happy he is not out there, watching in the flesh the preamble of what he knows will be a dark chapter in muggle history.

Almost. He never had the _pleasure_ of experimenting a _real_ war. He was stopped before he could make one and locked for the duration of what muggles still call ‘The Great War’. But from what he sees in his visions, he knows that another is coming. An even greater one. Yet he suspects wizards and witches will stay out of it, like they always do. Because they’re cowards. Muggles are barbarians and they’ve always been, but all magical creatures have the power to stop them, and still they are forced to hide. It’s absurd. And he knows that a lot of people think like him. They still write to him, and he spends most of the hours of the afternoon replying to their letters.

He hadn’t, at the beginning. He hadn’t seen the point. But he had extremely loyal acolytes, people that were willing to give their lives to change the world into a better one, one where all of Gellert’s plans could come true. People that were still, even now, thirty years later, trying to find a way to break him out of the prison he himself had built. Their passion and fidelity resulted quite amusing to him, if he had to be honest. But he encouraged it, of course. It was nice to feel important even there, in that miniscule cell. It had taken a few years, but eventually he made a habit of answering all their letters, at least the well-written ones. He knew that each and every one of the words he wrote to Vinda Rosier, one of his oldest and most loyal followers, ended up as a statement she used to expand his influence even now. In all honesty, it astonished him, to think that people could still follow him. They ought to see him as a failure, and yet he seemed to be some kind of symbol for rebellion and freedom. It isn’t an unwelcome responsibility, really. He just wishes he could do something about it, besides writing some empty words every few days.

Once he’s done with the papers and his —rather pathetic— breakfast, he considers his options for leisure while he brushes his teeth. He decides to make a couple of sudokus before his exercise routine, which consists mostly on push-ups, really. There isn’t much space, lest alone something like rope, and he honestly hates exercising anyway. He knows his body needs it, that’s the only reason he does it. But if he spends just a little too long doing a sudoku that his lunch ends up coming before he can exercise, at least no one can judge him.

Many of his followers send him compilations of sudokus nowadays, after he mentioned on a letter that he enjoyed them, but he still likes better the ones he makes himself. He has the habit to design four or five at a time, and then wait at least a weak to try to solve them, once they’re long forgotten. He can’t tell if they’re becoming easier because of his excessive practice, or because he’s getting better at remembering what he writes, but he’s sure that one of these days, sudokus will become maybe even worse than exercising, which is quite a depressive thought.

He’s running out of pastimes. Maybe he should try to invent an instrument from all the paper —and nothing else— that he has in his cell. He’s gotten quite skilful with the small nail clipper; the one sharp object he’s allowed to own. And it could be nice to hear a sound other than his voice and plastic sliding down the floor. He hasn’t heard any music in thirty years and nearly two months.

He wonders if one day he’ll stop counting, or if he’ll ever forget the important dates. Maybe in the far future, when he’s old and senile. But how long can a person live in captivity? He never cared to ask before. Before prison, he always assumed he would live well into his three hundred, but now he can’t tell. He’s in his early fifties, but he feels so old. And yet, he’s barely lived at all. What is a life in a cell, confined to a small square of cold stone walls and a small window with a view he knows by heart?

He still stares at it, often. It’s a habit.

A moment later, he’s grateful the bed is glued to the wall on the left, as he watches with incredulity part of the opposite and adjacent walls blow up in pieces. It’s a small miracle none of the debris hit him.

No, not a miracle. It’s _magic_. He hasn’t done magic in thirty years and two months. He doesn’t waste his time envying the group of people standing inside his cell, that never had such restriction. He’s too happy to care. He recognizes a few faces, and he knows exactly what is happening.

“Vinda? Why, if it isn’t nice to see you,” he says in an amicable tone, hoping his easy smile and his relaxed stance can somewhat distract his audience from his long hair and his dishevelled form.

The smile she gives him revitalizes him. She’s excited, they all are, and no one seems to be disappointed by his appearance. Good. They shouldn’t be. If they were, Geller wouldn’t hesitate to kill them.

“Come on now, we don’t have much time, sir,” says the man standing closest to her. He’s tall, imponent, eyes of a killer, and Gellert is certain that’s the man that figured out a way to get him out of prison.

His smile shifts into something more dangerous, although he’s happy, energy running through his veins like it hasn’t in years. He takes a step closer to Vinda and says: “Very well, let’s go then. Do you have space to carry my correspondence with me, or…?”

Vinda’s face falls. “Oh, my Lord, I’m so sorry. Maybe if it’s just a few…”

Gellert knows the man by her side is struggling to keep his mouth shut, but his mask is slipping. He’s irritated, and maybe, under different circumstances, Gellert wouldn’t blame him. Under different circumstances, though. Now, he just _knows_ he’s not going to like that man. However, he ignores him and focuses on Vinda. Beautiful, faithful Vinda, whose face looks so strained for having to tell him no. He laughs. “I’m only joking, dear. They kept me sane, and I’ll always carry them in my heart, but I won’t miss them. I won’t miss anything from this cell. Let’s go. I haven’t felt the air on my skin in thirty years. I can’t wait.”

They use a portkey, and in a matter of seconds, they’re no longer in Austria. The air is warmer in what seems to be an attic, all wood around them, and even though there is dust everywhere, Gellert takes a deep breath and feels free. He’s not going to miss the sudokus, the heavy wool blankets, not even the books he read and reread a hundred times. He feels lighter, even as he stands still for Vinda and the rest to work on the spells that had been biding him and his magic. He doesn’t know how long it takes them, but he knows immediately once they’re gone, and he’d been worried for a second that he no longer would know what to do with himself but, oh, he never needed to worry. He feels like a fish returning to the water right before he suffocated.

“You are finally free, my Lord,” says Vinda. “What do you want to do now?”

Oh, he has many ideas. He knows his followers want to hear all about his plans to change the world, and he doesn’t think they’ll be disappointed. He had thirty years to plan, even if he never expected to leave that cell. He has thousands of ideas. But he also has many needs. He’s been locked down for way too long. His followers and his ideas can wait a little longer.

“Well, the first thing on my list, dear, would be a haircut.”

He doesn’t care to see the reactions of the people around him. Vinda smiles, and he easily places his hand on top of hers when she extends her arm. She apparates them in another room of the same building, and they’re thankfully alone. Even before prison he never found himself surrounded by strangers like that. He definitely does not wish to turn that into a habit.

She tells him that is his room, and she hands him a wand. His old wand. He doesn’t know how she found it, but he doesn’t ask. He simply smiles at her as she leaves, and he’s glad to be completely alone. He’s glad he’s been writing to people every day for so long, because he hasn’t talked to another human in thirty years and it could be even weirder, he knows, the idea of conversation, if it hadn’t been for those.

He takes his time fussing over his appearance until he’s satisfied, and he doesn’t keep track of time. They shouldn’t be in a hurry anymore, and looks are a very important part of a leader. And he is a leader. He never stopped being one, but now he needs to really play the part, fulltime.

He’s no longer twenty-three, but he likes what he sees in the mirror once he’s done, even if his face is perhaps too bony. The first couple of years were the hardest, starving. But lately he no longer cared. He’s sure he’ll get used to healthy amounts of food soon, though. He has to. He doesn’t look healthy, but he must if he wants to inspire anyone new into following him. He’s supposed to be a strong leader. Maybe now he’ll even exercise more. He can imagine himself jogging. He has the space, now. He’s free.

♠

** _Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland. 14 October 1935._ **

Ever since he can remember, getting up in the morning has been a struggle for Harry. For a while he hoped that maybe going to Hogwarts would change that, but it didn’t. By his sixth year, that hope is long forgotten, and most days he stumbles upon the Great Hall like a zombie, especially on Mondays. It takes him at least ten minutes, an unhealthy amount of tea, bread, pastries and sausages, before he can even open his eyes properly, but his friends don’t care. They’re used to it. Hence it isn’t strange when nobody greets him, except after a while, he notices most people are either reading a newspaper or talking lowly to their neighbours, all looking rather alarmed.

“What is it that everyone is whispering about?” he asks after a minute.

“Grindelwald escaped from prison,” explains Ron in a whisper, looking pale and frightened.

Harry knows he’s heard that name. He does. He just can’t quite remember where.

“Uh,” Neville mumbles, looking embarrassed but clearly finding an ally in Harry, “I’m sorry, but could you tell me what he did? They don’t say that in the article…”

Ron’s face is the definition of incredulity, but when he turns to see his best friend and notices his sheepish smile, a clear indicator that he’s none the wiser, he sighs, resigned that he’ll have to give them a small history lesson. It isn’t by far the first time he has to do so. Ron, being one of the youngest in a large family, grew up listening to the same stories over and over that he learnt them all by heart. Harry would hear the revised version, since his father liked to give too many details for a toddler and his mother would usually interrupt him. At the end, Harry hardly ever heard the full story, and when he did, often it wouldn’t make much sense, so when it comes to anything that involves violence prior to 1929, his knowledge is questionable at best.

Neville, on the other hand, has been raised by his grandmother, and she sheltered him from the world in such a way that he was embarrassingly ignorant at times, more often than not.

“He didn’t do much,” admits Ron, “but it is told that he was extremely powerful, even though he was in his early twenties. He could’ve conquered the world.”

“Even after all his years in prison, he was still gathering followers, apparently,” adds Hermione, who of course has read all about it already.

“He wanted to enslave muggles,” says Ginny, brow furrowed. “Everyone’s surprised he escaped, but he was the one to _build_ the prison they locked him in.”

“Yeah, but if it took him thirty years then it was probably not such a bad idea, don’t you think?” says Ron.

She purses her lips and hums, unconvinced, even though Harry thinks her brother has a good point.

“The point of his rebellion is that he wanted to _free _us from the Statute of International Secrecy,” says Hermione, gaze fixed on her plate, although Harry doesn’t think she’s seriously looking at the food that’s still there. Her mind seems to be elsewhere. “That’s why he had so many followers, I guess, and why he keeps getting them. They don’t focus on the means, the hunger of power behind it, just in how we’re hiding. And how it seems to be there just to protect muggles, instead of protecting us.”

“Well, when you say it like that…” mutters Neville.

Hermione nods her head. “That’s what made him so dangerous. That’s what makes him so dangerous _now_. The number of followers he has is _massive_. If he’s planning on ending what he started all those years ago…”

“Well,” says Lavender Brown, who hasn’t really been a part of the conversation, and is sitting two seats away from Neville; on a normal morning, she would need to yell so they could hear her, but this is not a normal day, “maybe if politicians dared to question a law that’s been in action for over two centuries, he wouldn’t be so convincing.”

“The Statute of Secrecy is for our safety,” argues Hermione. “Haven’t you read what it used to be like? When muggles hunted us?”

“Aren’t your parents muggles?”

“Yes. And I love them. But I understand why the law is the way it is.”

Harry isn’t sure he does. If he’s honest, he’s never given it much thought; the only muggles he knows are his relatives. They’re aware of magic, but they’re hideous people, and if it weren’t because he knows it makes his uncle Vernon quite jealous, he would think that they don’t even _deserve_ _to_ _know_ about it, for it makes the world so much interesting. He knows there are good muggles out there, of course — Hermione’s parents, for starters. He’s only seen them a couple of times, but he knows they’re kind and loving. Still, he doesn’t know how many of them are there. Bad wizards cannot be kept from seeing the wonders of the magic world, but at least bad muggles can be kept at bay, with such a law.

He’s never been inconvenienced by having to hide. He lives surrounded by wizards. Sure, it can be a bother not to be able to use magic outside of Hogwarts, and on the few occasions he has to see his cousin he would love to demonstrate a few things just to mess with him, but aside from that, he’s never thought that he was _actively hiding_. He never thought that hundreds of people could be motivated enough for it to fight a war.

Now power, that is a different story.

Of course that most magical creatures can overpower a muggle if they really want to, but Harry would like to think that what stops them isn’t just a law. He wants to believe that people are better than that. He really wants to. But dynamics of power are a complex thing, and he doesn’t fully understand it. He just tries to make sense of what he’s seen and heard but it escapes him, many times, how easily some abuse their position just because they can, and how understandable yet reproachable it is when the powerless find a way to act in revenge.

At some point, the conversation has turned into an argument and Harry isn’t sure if it’s because Lavender truly opposes the Statute of Secrecy or she just wants to fight Hermione, but he’s glad when it’s time to go to class and they have to stop it. They still glare at each other occasionally, but no words are exchanged. When they go back to the Great Hall for lunch, Lavender sits even further away, and Harry relaxes. Conversation is loud, and it almost feels like a normal day, but it isn’t. If he pays attention, he can tell that most people are still talking about Grindelwald.

After lunch, it is time for his favourite class, with his favourite teacher: Defence Against the Dark Arts, imparted by Professor Albus Dumbledore. The man is a legend, and the one that stopped Grindelwald, too, but he isn’t sure if bringing that up will be a good idea. It’s unlikely no one will, though, so he just hopes Lavender will sit far enough from them and not cause trouble. If the tension between her and Hermione doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to be the one to smack Ron and force him to do something about it.

In the end, they’re not even seated when Susan Bones, a Hufflepuff he’s hardly ever talked in all the years they’ve been classmates, asks: “Did you hear the news, Professor? About Grindelwald?”

Dumbledore’s face is unreadable on most days, but Harry thinks he sees something like discomfort there.

“Yes, indeed. I believe everyone in Europe has, Susan.”

“You were the one to put him in prison, weren’t you, Professor?” says Ernie.

Dumbledore supports himself against his desk, casually folding his arms on top of his chest, and nods. “Yes.”

“Are you scared?”

“Are you going to join the Aurors to fight him?”

“Do you think he’ll seek revenge against you?”

“Children, children,” his voice is soft, and his body language is the definition of relaxed, but the classroom falls silent at once. “You don’t have to worry about that. In fact, what I have prepared for this class will need you all to be completely focused, ready to face your fears, your personal demons. Don’t be concerned about mine.” He moves to the middle of the classroom, smiling and vibrant with energy, and claps his hands. “Come on, now, help me clear the room.”

And just like that, all talk about the escaped criminal is forgotten. Dumbledore’s enthusiasm is contagious and soon enough they’re all eager to start with the lesson, even after they hear what it is — although most of them get a little nervous, some retreat to the back of the line when they had done their best to make it to the front before they’d known what it was that they were lining up for. Harry’s just a tiny bit scared, which is normal, but he doesn’t move from his place as the sixth in line. He trusts Professor Dumbledore — they all do.

“Now, remember that it’s just a boggart. It can’t hurt you,” repeats Dumbledore, only incrementing the adrenaline that’s running through everyone’s veins.

It’s about to be Harry’s turn when the door bursts open.

“Out of here,” says the man at the front of the large group that invades their classroom.

Harry has seen him before, he’s sure, but he can’t place him. Then a moment later he sees his father among the men, discreetly waving a hand at him and winking, and he realizes it’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with several Aurors behind him. He doesn’t like that man, and he doesn’t like that they’re interrupting the class so rudely, but he manages to smile at his father before he exits, because it’s nice to see him. He hopes they’ll get a chance to chat before he has to leave. He misses him. Letters aren’t nearly as nice as hugs.

♠

** _Classroom 3C, Serpentine Corridor, third floor._ **

Albus watches his students leave and deliberately ignores the Auror. Many of them were once his students too, and he remembers them well. Some of them have the decency to look uncomfortable with the rashness of their actions, but there are quite a few who seem to have enjoyed it.

Those are the ones Dumbledore wishes would’ve picked a different career path.

“I’m sure you’ve already heard the news,” says Torquil Travers, current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’s one of the smug ones, although he wasn’t a student of his.

He was a few years younger than Albus. He knows they were together at Hogwarts at some point, and they went to the same house, but Albus just can’t, for the life of him, remember a single occasion in which he’d seen him there. All he knows about him is what it is told on papers, but he doesn’t like him. And looking in his eyes right then, he knows the man doesn’t like Albus either.

He tilts his head to one side. He doesn’t smile, not really, but he knows there’s a hint of humour in his voice as he says: “About Grindelwald? Yes. Well, I read them.”

He notices from the corner of his eye that James Potter smiles briefly, entertained now instead of apologetic like before, and he has to stop himself before he winks an eye at him. He was one of his favourite students, and now so is his son.

Travers hums and stares at him in a way that Albus guesses is supposed to make him nervous. It doesn’t have that effect.

Albus really doesn’t like that man. He makes sure that doesn’t show on his face and says: “And?”

“And? Well, professor, we all know that you were the one to stop him the last time. We’re hoping you’ll be willing to do it a second time.”

He knows he shocks every single one of them with his answer. He doesn’t care. He keeps his face open, his stance relaxed, his speech honest, and he hopes his eyes deliver how much he genuinely cares for peace regardless of the words that leave his mouth.

Albus watches them leave and wonders if he can get away with finishing his day early. He doesn’t think he can continue with the lectures. He’s too distracted. Way too distracted to be trying to teach others how to cast defensive spells. He doesn’t ask anyone, and he just leaves. He walks the distance until the apparition restrictions are over and then travels to his childhood house, the only home he has outside of Hogwarts, and hopes his brother isn’t there. He’s the last person he wants to see now that Gellert is out there again.

But that really isn’t his day, and Aberforth Dumbledore is standing right in front of him an instant later, on their childhood living room, arching one eyebrow. There’s mud on his boots, and he’s holding a mug probably filled with a mix of tea and alcohol.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” he asks, because of course he does.

Albus sighs. “Yes. But I had an unpleasant visit and I just needed to clear my mind.” He realizes his mistake right away, but it’s too late, and his brother is already tense, brazing himself for a fight due to a ridiculous misunderstanding. “Travers and a bunch of Aurors stormed into my classroom and kicked out the students rudely just to talk to me. It was rather uncomfortable,” he explains a little hurriedly, hoping it’ll be enough to appease his brother. Hoping the conversation will be over soon.

It had taken a lot of patience, back in 1900, trying to mend his relationship with his brother, who rightfully hated him at the time, and it had all been Gellert’s fault. Nowadays, Aberforth knows exactly how Albus feels, and in turn, Albus knows exactly what his brother thinks of it. He really doesn’t want to argue.

But it doesn’t matter what he wants, because Abe is an idiot.

“They want you to catch your boyfriend a second time and you don’t want to? Come on, Al,” he places the mug carelessly on top of the short cupboard at his back, “you must have known they would come asking for that. And you should, anyway. He’s a danger and you know it.”

“He barely did anything last time.”

“Because you stopped him. And he still murdered about two hundred people and almost exposed the magical community a few dozens of times. He wanted to start a war and he almost did. I’ve heard that his followers kept growing in numbers even while he rotted in prison.”

Albus knows all that, of course he does. He doesn’t have to hear it again. Doesn’t want to. It hurts. It hurts too much.

“Albus, it’s been thirty years. You can’t possibly still…” his brother stops talking, and Albus suspects everything he’s feeling and thinking must be clear on his face.

He knows what his brother is thinking. Knows what anyone would think if they heard him. But he can’t help it. Gellert has been the only person he’d ever imagined a future with. He knows he did the right thing, stopping him, and he doesn’t allow himself to regret it, but his heart aches each time he closes his eyes and sees the monster he still loves locked inside a cell because he put him there.

Because Gellert Grindelwald is a monster. He is. But he is also the most interesting, most captivating, most similar person Albus has ever met. No one has ever understood him the way Gellert did. No one has ever made his heart beat faster. And he misses him, Merlin, he misses him. He has missed him every day since they parted in 1899.

Abe doesn’t open his mouth again. Instead, he storms out of the house indignantly, not saying all the things he’s thinking, that Albus already knows anyway.

♠

** _Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle._ **

It’s late, but Harry cannot sleep. Dumbledore’s face after they asked him about Grindelwald is stuck on his head. Not only that, but the way the Aurors stormed off after whatever they discussed with him, too, cannot leave his mind. He barely had time to hug his dad goodbye. He wants to ask Dumbledore about it. It’s late, but he’s been to his office around this time in the past, and now he cannot stop thinking about going there and asking. He grabs the Invisibility Cloak and slips out of the dorm without waking anybody, which isn’t particularly hard to do.

He’s nearly out when he notices there’s still someone on a couch, surrounded by a couple of books. He recognizes her right away, and his feet are taking him towards her without waiting for his brain to catch up, but that’s okay.

“Euphie,” says Harry, a warning clear on his face, “what are you doing up so late?”

The eleven-year-old rolls her eyes at him, and he really shouldn’t be surprised. She’s heard way too many stories about her parents and about Harry and his friends to take him seriously when it comes to follow the rules.

“Come on now, you must go to bed,” he insists anyway.

She looks like she can’t believe him, but at least she starts collecting her things on her satchel. “You are unbelievable, Harry Potter,” she says, sounding just like Sirius. “Shameless. I’ll tell papa and we’ll laugh at you, I’m sure.”

Harry hums. “Well, I’ll tell your dad, and I’m sure he’ll be scandalized. It’s well over your bedtime.”

She gasps, turning on her heels to stare at him with a sheer panicked expression. “You wouldn’t!”

Harry smirks. No, he wouldn’t. But she doesn’t have to know that. He’ll just remember to use Remus as a threat more often.

Once he’s certain she went to bed, he resumes his way to Dumbledore’s office, thankful Euphie didn’t ask him what _he _was doing up so late.

“Harry?”

“Hello professor, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I couldn’t sleep.”

Dumbledore smiles knowingly, nods, and invites him to take a seat across his desk. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says as he sits down in a comfortable chair, the sound of his own feet against the wood a little too loud in the familiar room that feels just a tad alien at that hour of the night. He waits comfortably and watches the teacup being prepared mid-air by a man that hardly pays any attention to it, his gaze focused instead on a pile of papers he still has in front of him. Once it’s ready, it flies to his face and he’s only mildly worried about it burning him — it’s more amusing than frightening, the white porcelain coming his way in threatening speed. He smiles and sips it silently, giving the professor all the time he needs with his work.

“You want to ask about Grindelwald,” Dumbledore mutters without meeting his eyes yet, sliding one paper from the reading pile to the one on the left with a flick of his wrist.

Harry swallows faster than he should have, burning his throat in his hurry to admit: “Yes.” He puts the offensive cup down on the desk, careful not to stain any papers, and clears his sore throat. “Well, not exactly.”

Dumbledore arches his eyebrows, finally giving him his full attention, even though he’s not nearly done.

“You clearly didn’t want to talk about him in class,” he explains quietly. His fingers find a loose thread on the inside of his right sleeve and he absentmindedly starts playing with it. “And some of the Aurors were pretty angry when they left.” His father wasn’t, but he looked disappointed. He didn’t give Harry any details, but it wasn’t hard to decipher how that conversation must have gone. “I just want to try to understand,” he licks his lips, “why you don’t want to be involved a second time. Don’t you think he’s dangerous anymore?”

“To be honest, Harry?” He puts all the papers away in one neat pile that flies to another desk on the back of the room and pours some tea for himself. “No. I believe that it isn’t my job to stop him this time.”

The thread snaps away from his sleeve, and he barely registers the pain in the paling finger to which it’s still attached to.

“But—”

“I already did it once, because I thought I had to. Now…” he takes a long sip of his tea, closing his eyes for a moment, but he doesn’t look relaxed. He doesn’t look precisely tense either — or at least, Harry doesn’t think so, but Dumbledore has always been difficult to read. Still, to him, the way his face wrinkles, it looks to him as if the professor is hurting, for just a second. “There are others, professionals, far more qualified for it than me. Back then I was young and barely knew what I was doing, Harry. I was twenty-four years old.”

“That only means now you’re better,” Harry replies softly, trying to sound encouraging and supportive. He’s at a loss, though, for he hasn’t got the least idea of what it is that the man is in need for.

A long time passes, or at least it feels very long, in which none of them makes a sound. Slowly, the professor fixes his intense gaze on Harry, looking more serious than he’s had in all the five years he’s been his teacher, assessing him as if Harry was not a student but a cursed object he needs to deal with, and a shiver goes down Harry’s spine. He almost tilts his chin up defiantly but decides not to.

He’s not a threat. Not to the great Albus Dumbledore, for sure, and certainly not to his favourite professor. He doesn’t smile either, but he hopes his expression is as open as he wishes it to be.

“I’m going to tell you something, Harry, something very few people know. But I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else.”

“Of course,” he says earnestly, leaning forward slightly. If he had longer hair, it would fall into his cup.

“I knew Grindelwald.”

He involuntarily gasps, but the professor was probably expecting it, and he seems unfazed.

Then he realizes he doesn’t exactly know what that means, and he frowns.

“Sir?” he asks, probably looking as puzzled as he feels.

“I knew him, before he started his army. That’s why I stopped him. He was… he was my friend. And I thought I had some responsibility, that I had somehow encouraged him to become the criminal he turned into. But now, I know I haven’t. I did my part, Harry, and as long as he’s not hurting anyone, I’m not going to leave my job, my genuine responsibilities, to chase after a ghost. Do you understand?”

Harry isn’t sure he does. Does that mean Dumbledore had only been motivated by guilt in the past? No, otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned the safety of others. Does he believe his old friend might be reformed? He surely is always seeing the best in people. But they’re talking about a mass murderer that wanted to take over the world. Surely, he knows better than to think he could change?

Then something clicks in Harry’s head.

“Is he still your friend, Professor?”

Dumbledore smiles enigmatically around his nearly empty cup of tea and says: “You are a very intelligent young man, Harry. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

“Sir?”

“Friendship is a rather large concept, Harry. I’m not sure I can answer your question tonight. Besides, it’s rather late. Better go to bed before somebody notices you and we both get in trouble, okay?” He winks an eye at him, and Harry’s moving before he knows it. He still wants to ask more questions, but he knows he’s not going to get any more answers, so he leaves.

Maybe some other time. He likes these late-night conversations in Dumbledore’s office. It might be a good thing he’s got things for another occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia Hope Black-Lupin is an OC I created for another story I haven’t published yet, and I love her. Yes, you read that right, she’s Sirius and Remus’s daughter. They’re in the tags! You’ll see them later. They’re great parents.
> 
> Also, English is not my first language, and usually I write stories with American characters, so if you find anything weird, please let me know!
> 
> I should update this story weekly, normally on Saturdays, I believe. Comments and kudos are highly appreciated and make me write faster :) and if you want, you can always come and yell at me on Tumblr, I'm @discretocincel


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little earlier because you've all been so nice! Thank you so much to all those who commented and left kudos! Hopefully you'll like this one too :D

** _Paris, France. Early morning of 17 October 1935._ **

On top of a too soft bed, Gellert considers grabbing a pillow and sleeping on the floor. It’s been four days but it’s not getting any easier, and he’s growing frustrated, even though he knows it’s too soon. Thirty years of sleeping on an excuse of a mattress on top of hard concrete cannot be magically forgotten, and the comfort is not only alien, it is _bad_. His body _aches _everywhere and he feels irrationally old. He’s wasted more than half his life on a cell and he’s bitter about it. But he forces himself to endure. Stubbornly, he stays on top of the bed and closes his eyes in a desperate effort to fall asleep in spite of everything he’s feeling. It’s not just the bed, but everything. Everything is too much. It’s embarrassing, how overwhelming the last few days have been, but at least he’s certain no one has noticed.

Well, almost no one. At times, he’s almost sure that unnerving Riddle has him figured out.

He supposes he should be thankful, but he cannot stand him. The man that planned his escape was someone he had never seen before, but he had written him around three dozen letters in the past four years. Tom Marvolo Riddle —he preferred to be called by his middle name, for unknown though quite _obvious_ reasons— was certainly more intelligent than average even though he didn’t have much of a career as he approached forty; he was also, objectively, a handsome man. Charismatic, too, and Gellert knew all too well how useful all those attributes combined could be. Even the Austrian muggle had figured it out, and Gellert can just tell that his old visions are close to becoming a reality while the entire world simply watches from the wings. Muggles are despicable at times, but so are wizards and witches when they decide to stay away from conflict. He read that they helped a little on the Great War, but he wasn’t there and he’s not sure if he believes it.

After nearly two hours of tossing and turning, he gets up and goes to his desk to write a letter he’s uncertain he’ll ever send. It’s an old habit, writing to Albus when he cannot sleep, but he’d stopped wondering if he should or shouldn’t send one over thirty years ago. Before his imprisonment, he’d worried Albus would find a way to him through them, and so he hesitated each time. Still he sent them, each and every one of them, in intervals that rarely exceeded a week. At the beginning it had been an excuse to clear his mind, especially because Albus never answered. It took around two years for them to turn into a fluent dialogue. A little less, for the first answer Albus ever gave him came right on the second anniversary of Ariana’s death.

17 of August, just over a week short of Albus’s birthday. Gellert is still surprised he remembers the date so clearly; he never used to be such a sentimentalist. And honestly, to this day he’s not sure he can remember what Ariana’s voice sounded like. Hers is a death he only laments because of its consequences, but still a part of himself insists it was for the best, at least for Albus. Having to care for her he was throwing away all his potential. Then again, Gellert considers he’s also doing that now, being nothing but a teacher.

He doesn’t say that on the letter he’s writing at the moment. He has in the past, but they agreed to disagree on that. Albus, with his heart of gold and his ridiculous insistence on caring for others and trying to improve the world in such tiny, inefficient ways, are part of what makes him so charming. Gellert is certain he wouldn’t find it as infuriatingly adorable on anybody else, but Albus has that effect on him, turning the most inconspicuous things into something remarkable just because it’s him. Gellert is defenceless against his twinkling eyes and his velvety voice, but he doesn’t care. Albus has never been, and never will be his enemy. He doesn’t care if others think he is, so long as they don’t hurt him. He knows there was some wild speculation after he arrest regarding what means Albus had used to stop him — there had been no witnesses of their encounter, after all, and there hadn’t been any structural damage that they could find. Respectable journalists declared that there hadn’t been a trace of a fight and the magic world had gone crazy. Still, Albus had handled it spectacularly, like everything he did, explaining that once he’d gained control of the elder wand there hadn’t been a need to fight, and soon enough all rumours had disappeared. Some were still curious, but nobody doubted that Albus was a powerful wizard, at least Gellert’s equal, and that they had nothing else in common beyond their abilities and strength. Sometimes, when he was feeling at his lowest, Gellert believed they were right. What could he possibly have in common with Albus nowadays?

Albus was everything that was right with the world. Kind, caring, respectful and considerate even when he had the power to control everyone around him. He had a unique sense of humour, an iron will, a mind like no one else’s, and Gellert had never met anyone stronger. Anyone _better_. Anyone worthy enough to stand by his side as he reshapes the world.

He doesn’t say that on the letter either, but he’s told Albus a thousand times. Ever since he was imprisoned though, Albus started discrediting his claims arguing that he couldn’t really know given the circumstances. He’ll wait until he’s been outside for a considerable amount of time —maybe two weeks or so— before remarking that, indeed, he’s still right about Albus’s superiority. It isn’t exactly difficult to confirm. Most of the people he meets prove how terrible they are within two minutes or less.

Instead, he writes about the mattress. He confesses to Albus that it is too soft, and that it’s taking him a little longer than what he hoped for to get used to his newly gained freedom. He would never tell anyone else this, but he wants to tell Albus. He wants him to know about it just as much as he wants to read what he will have to say.

He also tells him about the new followers he’s met, gives a general description that would be useless in case the letter fell on the wrong hands, even though he knows that will never happen, and he resists the urge to tell him about Riddle. He still mentions that there is one in particular he dislikes and hopes that he’ll find the liberty to elaborate on the issue in the near future — surely, in a time and place far away from Riddle’s grasp.

Once he’s done writing, he feels like maybe sleep won’t evade him if he tries again. And he succeeds. When he wakes in the morning, he’s well-rested. He also needs to genuinely think of what he’s going to do next. For a moment, he entertains the idea of doing nothing. He knows the entire world is holding their breath, expectant and terrified, but he’s tired. He had been resigned to never accomplish anything, and just the possibility of fresh air and liberty sound like a good enough improvement from his prior expectations.

He quickly decides he won’t be doing that, though. He may feel old, but he isn’t. And he’s going to do what he decided he would all those years ago. Not because he wants freedom, or power, or because he cares about all those who put their faith in him, no.

It’s because of the person that stares back at him in his reflection in the mirror.

He’s familiar, but Gellert doesn’t think he knows him any more than one knows a celebrity whose profile you read on an article on the newspaper. He wants to get to know this person, this person that can use magic, that sleeps on a soft bed in a luxurious flat in Paris. He’s someone that will be remembered for generations. There are lines on his face, but his eyes are filled with fire. He had thought that fire would be out by now, but it isn’t. It’s the same fire that managed to gather hundreds behind him after a week in that very same city in September of 1899, the fire that speaks of immense power within. The fire that congregated two thousand people to protest outside of the Swiss muggle palace of government after they cancelled one of his early rallies in January of 1900. The fire that moved thousands into acting all over the world with a deliberately minimal body count. It’s the fire that terrorized a continent for nearly six years but was never appropriately captured by the press and has now been forgotten by those who are comfortable in their cowardly world.

Gellert is tired of people speculating about how powerful he really is.

He wants to show them.

His magic was dormant for thirty years but using it once more is the most natural thing in the world. Like writing to Albus. Besides, the Statute of International Secrecy is just another barrier between his magic and him. He wants to get rid of it just the same as all the other spells, because he’s not willingly censuring himself after a lifetime locked away. The person in the mirror has the power to mobilize millions for his cause and wants to do it. No one can stop him. Not prison guards, not Aurors, not even governments.

Albus could. Albus _did_. But he’s going to figure out a way to get him on his side, this time, for he knows that was the only thing that was missing back in 1905. He had declared a war, had the entire continent terrified of him and had murdered over a hundred Aurors _that very same day _when Albus appeared. And then it wasn’t long before he was beaten. His followers couldn’t believe it. The authorities couldn’t believe it. At first, they even worried it was some sort of trap; that Albus was in fact one of Gellert’s men, but it was no ruse. Albus legitimately defeated him, and Gellert knows that he could do it again. A thousand times, he could, for Gellert would always bend to that brilliant mind’s will. That brilliant mind that now owns the Elder Wand.

Gellert doesn’t care if he doesn’t get to use it again, so far as Albus doesn’t fight him. Against regular wizards with their regular wands, he knows he won’t have trouble beating them, and he craves for the opportunity to prove it to the sceptical ones, that the legendary item was not the cause behind his success, but just another tool he knew how to use.

Once he’s done with his bath and breakfast, he calls Vinda, like it’s become his habit on the last days.

“Now would be a good time to give some words to your followers, don’t you think, my Lord?”

“Yes. The time is right, my dear. Lead me to them.”

She does. They apparate in the catacombs, and he really shouldn’t be surprised but he is quite amused. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, but some things can’t be helped. These are baby steps. He’s not going to fail this time, and so, he’s going to be careful.

He watches intently the multitude gathered in their vicinity, quite large for a Thursday morning, and he is pleased to see both familiar and strange faces. The people that once followed him are still loyal, but there are dozens —hundreds— that he never got the chance to meet and are dying to show him how much they believe in him. It’s flattering, no doubt.

Words leave his mouth easily enough, and in seconds he’s certain that most of them are holding their breath as he elaborates on what he expects from all of them. He doesn’t lay out a strategy right away but spares some time to tell them how he spent the last thirty years having visions of a world he’s not willing to live in and how he knows they all have it in them to fight by his side to make a difference. He talks about the things that are wrong, which to his dismay are very much the same things that were wrong thirty years ago, and in a matter of minutes he knows that if any of the listeners had held any doubt about their goals or Gellert’s authority, they are long forgotten. He talks, and they listen, and for a little bit, Gellert can almost pretend he’s twenty-two again and that they still have plenty of time to turn the world around to a better path. Almost. He then lets some urgency slip into his speech to make sure everyone gets how imperative it is for them to start moving, yet he finishes advising discretion for a little longer. He’s been out of prison for less than a week, and all over the world authorities are paying too much attention, so he tells his followers to be careful and keep a low profile until he gives new orders. By the time he’s said his piece, the people gathered around are buzzing with excitement, inspired by him, confident in their movement, and Gellert is relaxed and composed and believes it went well. He’s ready to leave, so is everyone, but then Riddle clears his throat and asks with a false sheepish grin if he can say some words.

Gellert wants to say no, of course, but he doesn’t. He’s certain he would regret either choice anyway.

“Soon there will be another big war in Europe, the one from your visions, sir,” says Riddle, “and I believe we could use that to our advantage.”

He receives praise in the form of appreciative whispers that extend through most of the crowd. Gellert purses his lips and watches as Riddle’s chest swallows with pride.

“Anything concrete, or just a vague idea?” he asks, because he has to, and because he wants the string of compliments to stop, if only a little.

“Well, for starters, if muggles really wish to start a war against us, like so many leaders try so hard to convince the magical population, after such a war, they’ll be weak. It’ll be easy to beat them.”

Gellert hums, nodding slightly.

“Lord Marvolo,” someone Gellert doesn’t know says, bowing exaggeratedly to both of them, “you’ve received another letter from the Führer, sir.”

“You’re in direct contact with him?” Gellert has read enough about that man to know he doesn’t like him. He even read his book. He can’t imagine someone getting in contact with him for _fun_, and it bothers him that Riddler didn’t say so himself.

“Yes. The Minister in Germany had to meet him in 1933, and reliable sources that I will tell you about when we don’t have an audience told me that he seemed interested in forming an alliance, to use magic to win the war he’s still planning. The Minister didn’t openly say no, but he has no intention of doing it, and Hitler could tell. That’s why I contacted him.”

“Did you offer him _our _help?”

“Not exactly. But I implied that we too, were planning to change the way the world works, my Lord.”

Once more the whispers of praise multiply around the tunnel, and Gellert observes all this with a content smile, his features never betraying the anger that rises inside him. “That was a good move, _Tom_. Well done,” he says amicably, enjoying the subtle reaction he gets, the not completely hidden rage and shame. Gellert considers it an exaggeration. It’s just a name, even if it’s a common muggle one. He suspects it belonged to someone else once, someone Riddle dislikes, but it could be simply that he doesn’t like how normal it is. That guy clearly doesn’t want to be normal. It makes him sick to be insignificant, and that’s what makes him so dangerous. He’s not going to be content with whatever power Grindelwald can give him, he’s always going to want more. His hunger for fame and recognition may even surpass his hate of muggles.

And maybe that wouldn’t bother him as much as it does if it weren’t because of the muggle Riddle chose to connect with.

While growing up, Gellert hardly ever interacted with muggles. He knew in theory that there ought to be good people among them, even though he’d never found any evidence. On the contrary, he kept finding evidence of how bad they could be the more and more he travelled, and the more and more he Saw. His mother and great-aunt made sure he learnt that there were some muggles who were remarkably bad, even to their own standards, and that man that Riddle was clearly connecting with, that Adolf Hitler, certainly fitted in that category.

Gellert had read the Nuremberg Laws while he was still in prison, as if he hadn’t been already appalled when they started burning books in 1933, and he simply holds no respect for a man that, though skilful and intelligent, seeks completely unfounded and ridiculous goals. As if there was a real class distinction between people of different races and religions, he’s making a monumental effort to strip people of what’s theirs and convince everyone else that what they’re doing is okay. And it’s proving not to be so difficult, if the stories he’s read about the raids are to be believed. He’s prohibiting regular people from performing most jobs using absurd terms and even more absurd justifications and yet he’s getting away with it. The horrible visions Gellert once hoped wouldn’t come true are getting closer by the second.

In the world Gellert is aiming at, not even magic, which is a real difference, will define people’s rights. Muggles will still be treated like citizens, no matter their natural disadvantages, and the same applies for wizards and witches. His kin will stop living in fear. They’re all going to be free, in a world that’s wide enough to share and doesn’t need dividing like they do now.

“I don’t trust him,” confesses Vinda few minutes later, when it’s just the two of them in his flat.

He hums and pours two glasses of wine with a flick of his wrist. “How long have you known him?”

“Four years. He definitely hates muggles, and he believes wizards should rule the world, but…”

Gellert smirks. “But you don’t think he believes that _I _should rule the world.”

She purses her lips. “He has never given me something to believe that. But…”

“I know what it is that you saw.” He sits on a divan and takes a long sip of his glass. “I see it too. He wants to rule, himself. He only freed me because he found good allies in my followers. If they weren’t so loyal, he probably wouldn’t have minded starting his own army.” He sighs and extends his right leg over the sofa, placing his left elbow on the armrest. He’s not tired, if not sensory overwhelmed. His quarters are nothing like his cell. He rather likes it, now that he’s gotten more used to the colours and textures.

She sits on the chair closest to him. “Many in our lines like him. Too much. Maybe we should do something and get rid of him fast.”

He clicks his tongue before saying: “No. No, not yet. He can be useful.” He notices both their glasses are empty, so he fills them again.

“He’s also dangerous.”

“You don’t think I can beat him?”

“I just think that you’ve been out of the game for thirty years, while he’s been here. The last thing I want is for that guy to steal _your_ army, my Lord.” She shifts in her seat and crosses her legs, leaning even closer to him. “I haven’t forgotten. None of us have. Your ideas, your displays of power… Riddle doesn’t have that. He has pretty words and he’s obviously powerful, but…” she licks her lips, “we are loyal to you. The ones that remember you, will always be loyal to you. Those who don’t, though, they may need to see some of it to be fully invested.”

Gellert throws his head back and smiles, amused with her choice of words. They may need to see one of his famous ‘displays of power’? Back then he had started big. He had wanted to be noticed, to take a stand and impact people in the process, shocking them into understanding that it was imperative the world changed. But now, such a thing would be the wrong strategy. His ideology is no longer some new discourse that people can take their time assimilating.

He wants to write another letter, but he’ll wait until he gets an answer to the one he already sent. Then, he’ll ask Albus what he thinks of it, even though he never liked discussing the movement’s actions — something about sponsoring a terrorist made Albus uncomfortable. Gellert’s usual answer was that he just wasn’t used to see his ideas brought to life, and the fact that they were no longer hypotheticals probably made him nervous. Exposure could help sooth him, but Albus had been categorical back at the beginning of the century and he probably still would be, but Gellert lost nothing trying. He wants to ask Albus, because he knows people like Vinda wouldn’t understand, not yet, how they need to proceed, but Albus would. He always had all the answers and Gellert was one of the few lucky ones that got to hear them.

Maybe back in 1905 his real mistake lied in making the wrong questions.

He just needs to make sure he does the right ones this time.

♠

** _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland. 17 October 1935._ **

Albus doesn’t get a letter until Thursday at noon, and the relief that overcomes him when he finally does is embarrassing. There are no witnesses to his shame, but he knows his conscience won’t let him forget for a long time. But he couldn’t help it, he had been worried.

Yet even his worries had been selfish.

Not for a minute he stopped to think that the reason for Gellert not writing might be an injury or something equally grave. No, he’d worried instead that maybe Gellert simply would stop writing, whether because it could be risky while hiding, or because he got too busy, or because… because maybe, now a free man, he wouldn’t feel the need to. And for three whole days, those thoughts didn’t leave his mind. When on Thursday, his concerns are proved wrong in one of the best possible ways, laughter builds in the pit of his stomach and it’s hard to resist it, but he manages. His heart flips and aches with the contents of the letter, and for few minutes, he can pretend what he’s doing is okay. He can even pretend it’s necessary, while he starts writing an answer focusing on the part about Gellert’s mattress. But then he’s supposed to comment something on his followers, and he can no longer pretend he’s not once again corresponding with a terrorist.

For the last thirty years it had been easier. And when he really thinks of it, that makes five sixths of their association, and he can almost convince himself that what he’s done is not so bad. All in all, mostly he’s written to a prisoner, a menace he himself stopped, and there’s nothing morally questionable about that.

His brother Aberforth would disagree, of course, but they hardly ever agree on anything. They never did. Except perhaps when it comes to Albus’s responsibility regarding their sister’s death. For it doesn’t matter how many times Gellert apologizes, Ariana’s death was, and it would always be, Albus’s fault. And his grieving heart will never forget. And maybe it was in an effort to share that guilt that he reached out to Gellert when he did, back in the eve of his twenty first birthday after the chaotic, terrifying, and awe-inspiring spectacle in Copenhagen.

They’ve known each other for thirty-six years, Gellert and he. For two months they were inseparable, almost literally. His summer of madness, he calls it, but to say that it ever ended feels like a lie. For nearly two years he stopped himself from opening the letters he received every few days, but all it took was one bad day, one bad day in which he couldn’t help himself and ended up reading them all. Then he started writing to him just as often. For so long, Gellert has been his main advisor. They disagree at times, but his is the opinion Albus values the most, even if he’s ashamed to admit it. Ashamed, because he knows he’s not supposed to value the advice of a criminal. A terrorist.

A monster.

But he does. And when he finally hears from him on Thursday, he’s immensely relieved. He’s relieved that a mass-murderer wrote to him. He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help it; his heart won’t listen. He doesn’t try to argue with the old fool — his heart hasn’t been his own since before he turned eighteen. Instead, he simply writes. He writes an answer and hopes the next letter will come soon, no matter their contents. Sure, he would appreciate inconspicuous and unproblematic topics, but just as he writes to Gellert asking for advice on some of the most important parts of his life, he does his best to be equally helpful.

Then again, in the last thirty years helping Gellert wasn’t usually such a terrible thing for the world. Now things have changed, and Albus should seriously reconsider where his loyalty resides.

Not before he gets an answer on which knitting pattern looked better for a scarf, though. He is making it for Gellert, after all, though that is still a secret. Yuletude is a long time away, and he may keep the scarf as a backup gift, just in case.

♠

** _46 Whymark Ave, Noel Park, London, England. 18 October 1935._ **

It’s late when James is finally free to go home. Normally, no matter how tired he is, Friday afternoons are a happy occasion. He looks forward to the weekend, to getting a letter back from Harry, and to stay in bed a little longer. But there is no space in his brain to feel anything resembling to happiness.

It’s been five days, and no one in Europe has seen Grindelwald.

It certainly didn’t help their spirits when Dumbledore said he wouldn’t leave Hogwarts to help with the chase. And the fact that there are so many young Aurors who aren’t taking the threat seriously is exhausting too. He was six when Grindelwald was arrested, he doesn’t actually remember much because his parents did their best to keep it from him, but one only needs to look at the facts to realize what a threat the man was, and most likely, still is. After all, he didn’t spend thirty years in a normal prison, or a terrible one, like Azkaban. He spent thirty years in a dungeon of his own making, mostly isolated, with a view to the mountains and time to read, and he isn’t even old yet. He had been younger than James is now at the time he was arrested, and his followers all across Europe bordered the 58000 people. If he would’ve tried an upfront war, he probably would’ve won. They never even arrested a third of his followers, and for all they know, now that he’s free again, they’ll join him.

He may go and fight that war now. They should be prepared for it. Maybe they’re wasting their time trying to catch him — Morgana, maybe they’re wasting their time trying to resist him at all.

He’s almost surprised to see two of his best friends standing by the kitchen counter while his wife cooks, even though it’s Friday and they always come for dinner on Fridays.

“Hey guys,” he says with a little wave of his hand, and he knows he sounds miserable.

“You look tired,” says Lily, giving him a sympathetic look and pouring some wine on a fourth glass before offering it to him. Whatever she was making is now boiling in a pot and no longer needs her attention.

James sighs and grabs it, immediately taking a long sip. “I am tired,” he admits, and rests his forearm on the counter. “Travers is considering sending a few of us all the way down to Austria, as if the guy really could be there still.”

“Maybe he is,” she says, pursing her lips and leaning back against the marble, “since most people expect him to go far away.”

“Yeah, but in the first couple of hours Aurors checked everywhere for him there. And I mean _everywhere_. He’s not in Austria, I’m telling you.”

“What about Switzerland? And Germany?” asks Remus.

James snorts a laugh, shaking his head with a cynic expression on his face. “I have no idea what is going on in Germany. The muggle chancellor is… well, you know. And he’s not making our job easy.”

“Do you think maybe they’re working together?”

“With a muggle? The guy that wants to _enslave _muggles?” He shrugs, although the disbelief is clear on his face. “I don’t know. Maybe. That guy probably would enslave other muggles as well. Maybe they see eye to eye.”

“And who knows how many Aurors are connected to his sympathizers, how many _are_ sympathizers, and may cover for him,” adds Sirius.

James groans. “Shut up! I don’t want to think about that!”

Lily takes his glass out of his hand and then intertwines their fingers, giving him an encouraging squeeze. “But surely the department cleared those related to the known followers, right?” she asks softly.

“They only ever arrested like half of them.”

“Yeah, more like a third.” James shakes his head and runs his free hand through his hair. “This is a mess, guys. I’m… I’m scared, really. I don’t think he’s going to retire and find a cabin somewhere to have a quiet life. This guy was expelled from Durmstrang and then tried to take over the world. He was stopped by someone everyone knows to be exceptional. And he’s had years to plan what he would do once he got out. Who knows what’s he going to do next.”

“Well, let’s not dwell on what we don’t know and get the plates. The food is ready.”

James does as he’s told, and somehow, they manage to take the conversation to lighter topics. It helps that Remus’s latest book was so successful that Gilderoy Lockhart’s last publication went under the radar and didn’t even sell a fifth of what they normally sell, and that is an accomplishment for the thinking world — none of them understand how the man ever got to be so popular, but even Lily liked his books at some point, though she claims she never considered them more than ‘entertaining fiction’. They talk all about the children’s last letters, about Harry’s last quidditch game and Euphie’s first examinations and what classes she likes best, and then they even get distracted enough that they listen intently to Sirius’s last incident with a stubborn patient. For once, Lily doesn’t call him an ‘immature healer that borders on negligent’. It’s odd enough that it brings back a certain uneasiness to the air in the otherwise cheerful dining room. Lily had been the one to insist on the change of subject, but she doesn’t seem willing to suggest a new one and doesn’t elaborate on how her job is going. Before they know it, they’re done with the food, and nobody feels particularly eager to keep the conversation going, so the guests leave.

They leave after hugs and kisses and promises of coming back for the following week, as usual. And Remus schedules a lunch for Tuesday with Lily, and James pats Sirius’s back and begs him to find some time for him on Monday. And like every week, Sirius says yes as he stands on the chimney next to his husband, hand in hand, and they leave. 

They leave the Potter’s residence with heavy stomachs and even heavier hearts. Remus almost cancelled earlier that day, but Sirius thought maybe James could give them some details regarding the search for Grindelwald, maybe reassure them a little bit.

He now regrets it, because he can admit he was wrong. James’s intel was not reassuring in the slightest. His only comfort is that none of them work on the weekends, because he plans on staying in bed for as long as they can, although he isn’t yet sure if he wishes to avoid all newspapers or have them delivered to him the minute they’re printed. He’s in a predicament, where he doesn’t want to know anything from the world because he knows is about to end and he prefers not to hear any of it until it’s all over, and at the same time, he needs to hear about every single development while his daughter isn’t where his eyes can see her.

“Do you think Hogwarts is safe, Sirius?” asks Remus later that night, while they’re both lying in bed on their sides, Sirius’s feet pressed against Remus’s shins.

“Dumbledore is there,” he mumbles awkwardly, trying to sound reassuring but to reassure whom, whether Remus or himself, he isn’t sure. Maybe he’s trying to reassure both. And he doubly fails.

It’s a good thing Remus cannot see his face, but he tightens the grip of his arms around Sirius’s middle as he says: “Exactly.”

Sirius knows what his husband means, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s simply not fair. Not on her first year. If this had happened simply a couple of months earlier, Euphie would be where their eyes could see her, safe. ‘_Hogwarts is safe,_’ he tells himself, but he doesn’t manage to say it out loud. Instead he closes his eyes tightly and tries to press himself even closer to Remus. It doesn’t calm his racing heart, but it warms him when Remus drops a tender kiss on his cheek. Their daughter is safe, in an impenetrable castle surrounded by powerful teachers and hundreds of other students. Her owl is fast, and they are faster. If at some point anything happened, they would be by her side in minutes. They could apparate at Hogsmeade and then make it through one of the many secret passages only a handful of people know. If anything happened, _they_ would reach her before danger did. And so long as they’re all together, Sirius knows they’re going to be alright.

So, he sleeps, and he doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like updating once a week, although normally I'm very busy on Wednesdays so I'll try to post chapter three a little earlier :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like taking my breaks before I actually do any of the work so I finished this before either the pressure or the boredom kills me (next week's exams are most definitely going to finish the job anyway).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's liking the story so far, and hopefully you'll like this chapter. It contains one of my favourite parts!

** _Headquarters of the British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London, England. 22 October 1935._ **

Hector Fawley considers himself a sensible man. There’s a reason he has the job he has, with such tremendous responsibilities. He keeps a levelled head and never acts impulsively, and the magical community of Great Britain knows it. They trust him. They _chose _him. And he’s certain he’s not going to let them down. He doesn’t care what the newspapers say. He’s been a politician for a long time and knows how to recognize a menace. He still remembers what it was like when Grindelwald first started to cause trouble, and he dealt with the aftermath when his career was only starting. By not investing every man and penny in the search for him, he’s not _underestimating _the terrorist, he’s _actively fighting _him. He never would’ve become what he was if it hadn’t been for the platform that his persecution gave him, when he was only giving speeches. People started listening because the authorities worried about him. And Hector Fawley is not going to make the same mistake.

It’s been over a week and there’s no trace of the criminal. All over Europe Aurors are losing their heads —and their jobs— passing every waking moment on the search for him, but it’s like he just vanished. From a fortress in the Alps. If he hasn’t gone mad, then he’s probably going to stay hidden a little longer. That’s what Hector would do. So, as early as nine in the morning, he has the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in his office to discuss what measurements are to be taken.

Torquil Travers looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. When Fawley first met him, he thought the man’s confidence would be useful in difficult times. He hasn’t yet been proved wrong, but he’s starting to worry, this Tuesday morning.

“How is the search going, Travers? Any news from the Austrian authorities?”

“They’ve been as cooperative as they’ve always been, sir. If anyone has seen him, it’s unlikely we’ll hear it before they make an arrest.” He frowns. “One would think the gravity of the circumstances would top some egos.”

Hector isn’t sure that if Grindelwald had escaped on British soil things would’ve been any different, but he doesn’t point it out.

“That is the thing, Travers,” he says instead, gesturing with his index finger as if his main argument was floating in the middle of the room, “maybe the Austrians understand that the situation isn’t as severe as we’ve so quickly decided.”

“What do you mean, sir? We don’t know where Grindelwald is!”

“Yes, and what did he do, exactly?”

“Sir! He’s considered the most powerful dark wizard of all times!”

“Please! He killed what, two hundred people? And he’s been rotting in a cell for thirty years, for Merlin’s sake, you can’t possibly believe he’s worth this much trouble?”

Travers shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable under Hector’s gaze. As he should be. They’re irresponsible, alarming the population like that.

“He was a prisoner in Austria. He made most of his mayhem over there. Even if he had ties with Britain, there’s barely any register of him being here at all.”

“But sir, Albus Dumbledore was the one to—”

“If he wants to go after that _teacher, _he’ll have to find a way to get to Hogwarts. And even if he does, isn’t Albus Dumbledore supposed to be a prodigy? He’ll be able to defend himself, I’m sure. I’m done wasting resources on a criminal that probably isn’t even here, and it’s probably _not even going to_ _come _here. You can close the investigation, Travers. That’s an order.”

“Very well, sir.”

Hector nods. He is a sensible man, and he’s not going to make the same mistakes people in his position did thirty years ago. He dismisses the Auror, and he takes a chocolate frog out of the cabinet he keeps for sweets and drinks. Long or infuriating meetings always leave him hungry.

♠

** _Berlin, Germany. 22 October 1935._ **

Gellert is shocked when he apparates downtown.

He never lived in Germany, but his visits were prolonged and frequent. He had seen most of the country by the time he was expelled from school. His second rally ever, all the way back in 1899, was in Habsburg, and his third was in Berlin. His memories of the place are fond. Before he opens his eyes there, he thinks he’s prepared for whatever has changed in the last thirty years, but he isn’t.

It’s not just how it looks. The city _feels _different. He’s read enough to know the general population had taken a low blow to their national pride after The Great War, but what he sees goes far beyond that. With their new chancellor, some people, _half _the people, are happy. One side of town looks prosperous and children play outside without a care in the world. The other side is depressing. People are losing their jobs, their homes, and the air is thick with omens of what’s yet to come. He doesn’t need to have a vision to see what soon will happen, for a lot of people see it too. And yet, there are many who seem not to notice. The city goes on in spite of all the changes; adults go to work, children go to school, and nobody cares about the new policies, the new definitions, the new restrictions or the new flag.

Something about their new flag simply rubs Gellert the wrong way.

He looks around and he knows what the muggle chancellor is going to sell to the world with their Olympics. He sees the wide streets, the double-decker buses, the buildings that he once knew and are still as majestic if not more. He read all about the butter riots two decades ago and sees no trace of it now.

He spends a week there before making a decision.

He inspects it all, both magic and muggle spaces, with Krafft and Nagel putting him up to date with the kind of development inconspicuous enough that was never mentioned in letters nor newspapers. Neither of them has changed much in the years he was locked away, if only they look older, but healthy and strong for men in their sixties with the amount of battles they’ve fought. They’ve kept a low profile in the last decades —none is particularly charismatic enough as to bring in new members, not like Vinda or Carrow, or even Riddle— and that has allowed them to grow closer with law enforcers and bureaucrats; Nagel is especially talented with the latter ones. They stay in a muggle residential building whose owners have suddenly decided to abandon for the following week, with a view to the river, and the conversations with more sensible information are only given in the extensive living room, comfortably sprawled in the soft and elegant furniture, enjoying the muggle liquor and fruits.

In the early evening of the third day, Gellert has a vision. He’d been sitting on the sofa, and thankfully his glass of _wine_ rested on the centre table. Nagel had already retired to the bedroom he picked, so it’s just him and the ginger.

It isn’t the first time he’s had a vision in front of Krafft, but it hasn’t happened nearly enough times for it to stop being a shocking spectacle. Maybe there isn’t a number for it to ever stop being a shocking spectacle.

“What did you see, sir?” he asks as soon as Gellert’s body relaxes and he closes his eyes, breathing heavily.

What he saw may or may not come true one day, but people like Krafft don’t care about statistics and admire him like one would an oracle. Gellert smiles as he shakes his head. “It’s best you don’t know yet, Krafft. Really.” He isn’t sure the man could handle it very well. Morgana, Gellert isn’t even sure how he himself is going to handle it.

But a ‘not yet’ is more than what Krafft needs to hear. His vision is none of his business anyway, but it’s best to scare him with the possibilities than cut him out. All people like to feel special from time to time, and nobody likes to be reminded of their place when it’s irrelevant. Besides, Krafft isn’t going to insist. He looks frightened already, but he conjures a smile to wave goodbye at Gellert when he stands up and announces he’s going to sleep early. It had been MacDuff’s idea to tell people that his visions left him exhausted for it would grant him martyr-like traits, and Gellert plans to keep up the charade. It is fun and convenient.

In reality, his visions don’t leave him physically exhausted, but some of them do leave his mind in a haze, overwhelmed and worried. That one does. He knows that there is no certainty it will ever happen, but he decided a long time ago that the only way to handle them is assuming they’re all going to. He needs to prepare for everything. He needs to prepare for the devastation he just saw. And he needs to warn Albus. Morgana, he needs to warn _muggles, _before they destroy the bloody world. He starts composing a letter but then throws it away after he started narrating exactly what he saw in great detail, which hadn’t been his intention at first, but it’s a habit, and it’s late. He really should sleep. If it’s really necessary, then maybe he should speak with Albus in person. It’s a delicate thing, what he saw. Besides, now that he considered it, he can’t see other way. It’s a great excuse. And he really wants to see Albus. But he’ll do it after he’s done there. It’s only Thursday. He still has a lot to see in Berlin.

He doesn’t like any of it, but it is necessary. It is a long week, all in all, but he focuses on the task at hand and categorizes everything he sees to use it later, filing away names and acts and coming up with as many strategies to fight as to try and fix the lasting damage that will remain once it’s all over. He sees it already on people’s faces, and he knows what’s yet to come will only be worse. It’s a good thing he perfected his inscrutable mask while he was still in Durmstrang. The last thing anyone needs is to see his face contort with pity and frustration. The one good thing that comes out of his trip is the pleasure to hear German in the background. But eventually he’s back in France, and it pains him how much comfortable he’s there, although he’s already had fleeting visions of that damned red flag everywhere, there too. He makes it to his flat in the afternoon, and it doesn’t take long for him to have everything ready to an impromptu visit to the West Country of England. He’s about to leave when Vinda enters the room, with a slow pace that’s supposed to guise calm but with fidgeting fingers that break the nearly perfect, impassive picture.

“Are you going to visit him?” she asks, face momentarily tainted with an emotion Gellert doesn’t know. “Dumbledore, the man that threw you in jail?”

He tilts his head to the right, intrigued. He doesn’t owe her an explanation, and he certainly isn’t going to give her one. But normally she knows that. She knows her place so well, Gellert wishes to know what prompted her to ask such a thing. “How is that any of your business, dear?”

Her lips tighten in a firm line. “I wanted to kill him, yet you made me promise I would make sure none of your followers would ever touch him. Why?”

“Why?” He arches his eyebrows. She’s being borderline insolent, but he’s not mad yet. “First, for your own protection. Albus Dumbledore is a formidable enemy, and he could have most of you for breakfast.”

“I know that’s not the real reason. You care about him, don’t you? You care more about him than any of us. You—”

“That’s enough. It is none of your business, Vinda. Know your place.”

“I do,” she replies softly. “I really do, my Lord, but I worry. You are essential to our cause; otherwise we would’ve gotten somewhere in the last thirty years. We _need _you. That’s why…” she licks her lips, “I really don’t think you should see him.”

She’s not the only one. Even Gellert himself knows that it is not prudent to visit Albus in this time and age. One thing is exchanging untraceable letters, but a very different one is to meet in person, and he is a wanted criminal. He once was _the _most wanted criminal in the continent.

But he already made up his mind, and he’s not afraid to fight. He’d rather not being discovered, of course, but that is why he’s taken so much precaution. It may be an unnecessary risk, but the information he needs to pass to Albus is not unnecessary. It’s urgent, really. And there are some things that are best said in person.

Besides, he really wants to see Albus. He hasn’t seen him in thirty years, and their last encounter was not precisely pleasant. He closes his eyes and deliberately doesn’t think back to their duel. The short, short encounter that could’ve ended in disaster if any of them had been just a little bit braver, or a little less in love. In his mind, it is almost as if that never happened. Almost as if they only ever kept in touch through letters, and they never saw each other again after Gellert left Godric’s Hollow eight days before Albus’s birthday.

And for what is worth, it is true that he hasn’t held Albus’s hand in thirty-six years. And that hangs heavy in his heart, for some reason.

♠

** _Godric’s Hollow, England. 29 October 1935._ **

They meet at midnight, next to Peverell’s grave. Albus is holding flowers, and Gellert is surprised he can still remember Ariana bringing the same kind inside the house more than once, putting them in water and then on top of the dining table. His stomach churns at the sight of them, so he quickly averts his eyes, and fixes them on something far more pleasant: Albus’s face. He’s seen Albus’s picture in papers in recent times, so the beard and haircut don’t shock him, but the clothes —the colourful robes— still do, a little bit; he used to say trousers were one of the best thing muggles have ever invented. The eyes are the same, though; twinkling, conveying so much over a face that expresses so little. For a few seconds none of them says a thing. They just stand there, in the dark, with halted words of regret and nostalgy and all those things they should have discussed at some point in their letters but never did. It was easier, keeping them off the paper. But now that they’re face to face, the elephant in the room is threatening with stomping on them and yet they still will choose to ignore it, because they’re both cowards when it comes to feelings, and because time and distance have drawn tacit lines in what they can and cannot do.

Conversation is okay. They’ve been doing it for years.

Anything else feels forbidden, so Gellert doesn’t even try to step closer.

“Walk with me,” says Albus, and Gellert knows where he’s going to take him, so he doesn’t ask. He simply follows once Albus turns around and starts walking, without waiting for an answer.

Ariana Dumbledore is buried next to her mother near the edge of the cemetery, and there’s something eerie about reading her name on a grave. Gellert still remembers her so clearly, but he’s never going to see her again. He isn’t sure he remembers what her voice sounded like though. He remembers her eyes, the way she combed her hair outside in the afternoons, and the few times she had asked him to do so. He almost wishes he would’ve done it more. He almost wishes they would’ve stayed at Albus’s house some more days, instead of being so eager to get away.

He wishes things hadn’t ended up the way they did. Ariana was a sweet girl, and a victim twice to horrible events she didn’t deserve. One took her control of her magic away from her. The other took her life. Gellert has apologized dozens of times, but he’ll never stop feeling guilty. All the other deaths he’s caused, they have been necessary. For the greater good, every single spell and hex he’s casted on other people has been deliberate, calculated, and inevitable. He also gave most of them a chance to switch sides, he offered to spare their lives if they swore loyalty to him, and some had done it. Some of them he had recognized in Paris, still loyal. But Ariana never had such a thing. She was the worst kind of collateral damage, and one that he would regret for the rest of his days.

Her death had also been what drove Albus away from him. Even though they never said it was over. They never officially broke up, but it’s been thirty-six years, so Gellert thinks it’s best to leave that alone. They both do, clearly, since they haven’t discussed it once.

Eventually, Albus sits down against the fence, on a patch of grass, with his legs extended in front of him. His feet reach his mother’s tombstone.

And Gellert sits down next to him.

“Why did you ask me to come here, Gel?”

“I had something important to tell you.”

Albus is giving him his entire attention, but he seems sceptical. “Really? And what would that be?”

“A war is coming.”

“Gel—”

“With, or without me, a war is coming. An Austrian muggle is trying to take over the world.” He’s smirking until he sees Albus’s arched eyebrow, and then he scowls. “Don’t you dare suggest he and I are anything alike. We’re _not_.” Some despair makes it to his face, and he doesn’t try to hide it. Not there. Not from Albus. “I’ve had visions, of what that man is going to do to the world, Albus. It’s…” he closes his eyes but the images behind his eyelids overwhelm him, and he has to open them again. “It’s simply dreadful.”

Albus stares at him with concern, but his mind is a mystery to Gellert. He says: “They want me to go after you again, you know?”

Gellert snorts, but he’s relieved to change the subject if only for a little while. Later, they ought to go back to it, for it is the reason he came, after all. But for now, he asks: “What did you tell them?”

“I have a job. Last time, I went after you on the summer break. I said I could give them a hand if they found you.” Their eyes meet, and the air around them is thick with unspoken things. “I never said what I would do if _I_ found you.”

“You didn’t though,” Gellert smirks, smug and amused. “_I_ found _you_.”

“You asked me to come see you here. Why? Don’t tell me it was just the Austrian muggle.”

Of course it wasn’t. There is more to his visions, more to the war that is coming, more to Gellert’s concerns. But Albus knows that, and yet he’s asking. And if he’s asking, is probably because he knows there’s something else. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just hopes there is. And Gellert isn’t going to disappoint him.

“Because I wanted to see you, of course,” he admits.

They stay in silence for a while, the wind whistling in their ears. Laying on the grass, their hands are close enough they could touch if they wanted to, but none of them dares.

“Why didn’t you let me visit?” asks Albus, even though he knows the real reason. He must know. “We wrote to each other every day but whenever I suggested I visited, you said no.” He’s pouting, and he looks just as adorable as he always did. His eyes stop meeting his for a second and it’s enough to drive Gellert mad. “I considered going anyway, but I figured you wouldn’t have liked it.”

“You were right. I wouldn’t have.”

A minute passes, and it is clear that Gellert is not going to put into words whatever reason he had for not wanting to see Albus in so long. It would perhaps throw relevance to the fact that he’s there now. That the news that had to be delivered in person are _important_, but Albus doesn’t want to dwell on that just now. He’s tired of thinking of wars when it comes to Gellert. Everyone is worrying about that. But he worries about other things.

Gellert looks so thin.

He’s still gorgeous, of course. His hair isn’t as bright and his haircut is honestly ridiculous, but his elegant nose, his hard jaw, his mismatched eyes are all beautiful to Albus. Irresistible, really. Such a bad thought to have in such a time.

“Are they trustworthy, the person that figured out a way to break you out of Nurmengard?” Albus asks, deliberately looking away even though he knows that he should be taking notice of every movement Gellert does. He could fool anyone, but Albus has always been exceptionally good at reading him.

Beneath the moonless sky, Gellert’s body language is open as it rarely is. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the memories that the grass around his fingers brings him, or the cold air caressing the skin of his neck, or simply Albus. Albus’s eyes, Albus’s voice…

Albus. Albus. Albus. The one person he wanted to share his future with. The one person he has ever considered his equal. Interesting, captivating, gentle Albus of long yet soft fingers.

He wants those fingers. He wants those eyes and those lips and that voice to swallow him whole and finally obfuscate the screams that fill his nightmares. He is certain that if those arms were to wrap around him, all pain would vanish. He wants that, he wants it so badly. He hates the pain. Hates it. He needs it to go away. He needs Albus.

But he knows he can’t have him. He’s known since Ariana’s death, all those years ago. Since he saw the horror on Albus’s face and he kicked him out of his life to never return. And as if that hadn’t been enough, he later confirmed how much he hated him, stopping him even after they had made sure they would never fight each other.

He is certainly a majestic thing, Albus Dumbledore. And Gellert will always love him.

He sighs and turns to look ahead of him. From where he is sitting, he can study the arrangement of flowers that Albus brought Ariana. “Honestly, no. What’s worse is that not only I don’t trust him, I’m pretty sure I know what his real intentions are.”

“He wants to succeed you.”

“In a way, yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Gellert confesses, sincerely. “Killing him is an option, I guess, but he’s smart. He probably has a good contingency plan, not only to survive, but to turn my followers against me if I ever attack him. He’s useful, too, I think. But I don’t like him. He’s a good actor, I guess, but he doesn’t fool me, that _Tom _Riddle.”

Albus frowns. “Tom Riddle, you said?”

“You know him?”

“He was my student. You’re right, he charms everyone but…” he shakes his head, grimacing as he recalls unpleasant memories, “he’s a fraud. He’s… wicked. And he craves to be special.”

“Yes! He’s like a child, desperate for attention.” He licks his lips and steals a glance at Albus from the corner of his eye, but the other man isn’t looking at him. Maybe that’s for the better. He takes a deep breath. “I had a vision, while I was in Germany,” he whispers.

“Was it a bad one?”

“Yes.”

“Was Riddle in it?”

“I’m… not sure. In my vision, I called him by a different name, a ridiculous name, and he looked different. But he _felt _the same. I know that he was responsible for it all.” For whatever _bad _was happening, he means, and he knows that Albus understands, because he knows how it works.

Some of his visions are short, nothing but a glimpse of a blurred scene as if he was watching from outside a tarnished window, and sometimes they feel like he’s a piece of furniture, trapped as a silent witness for an eternity. He completely loses track of time in those. But one thing they all have in common is that, no matter what he sees, no matter if he understands it or not, somehow deep inside he knows whether that future is good or bad. Or at least, that’s what he always has believed it means, the unexplainable and devastating feelings, be it cold, fear, anger, happiness, sadness, or warmness, that he’s left with once a vision is over. Sometimes, those feelings are very trivial, as if they’re barely there, and he can ignore them if he wants to, or needs to focus if he wants to study them. There are other times in which those feelings drown out everything else, and they don’t leave even as the vision’s details are long forgotten. Gellert hates those visions, probably because they’re rarely good. The good ones are almost always fleeting, short pictures that leave a subtle aftertaste behind. He can count the few exceptions, the long visions that are also happy, on the fingers of one hand.

And all have been of Albus.

The first one, back when he was seven and still terrified from his last vision — a particularly extended one where he saw his father torture a squad of muggle law enforcers that had attempted to arrest his mother. She had explained to him once more that his visions would not always come true, and he had asked what the point of it was then, if he had to worry about things that may never happen. His mother hadn’t known what to say, and then Gellert had taken every book on divination he could find back to his bedroom, determined to find a way to stop his visions. He had fallen asleep reading one when he was awoken by a long vision of a ginger boy telling him a story in a language Gellert didn’t speak, but he recognized the symbol that the boy drew in the air with his wand — a stick, a circle, and a triangle. He came to himself with a smile, the boy’s laughter still loud in his ears, feeling the way he did after his mother allowed him a piece of cake after dinner. And after that night, he stopped searching for ways to get rid of his visions and started reading to find ways to make sure they would come true. He also memorized the tale of the three brothers and read everything he found on the Deathly Hallows, just in case.

He’s told Albus almost all about his visions; what they feel like, how he feels once they’re over, and some he has recounted in high detail. Not that one, though. Not any of the ones that gave him hope when the world started to look too dark. Those are his, only. Just like the immense joy he felt when each of them came true. All but one, although he isn’t very hopeful about that last one — doesn’t _want_ to be hopeful. His heart isn’t strong enough for the disappointment nowadays.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asks Albus, brow furrowed and voice soft.

Gellert shakes his head, and this time, he isn’t thinking of what Albus will think of the vision, like back with Krafft. He simply doesn’t want to think about it, even though the horrific vision is painted behind his eyelids.

Albus takes a deep breath and, like it means nothing, grabs Gellert’s hand in his and squeezes. “Okay then,” he says, “would you like a sherbet lemon?”

Gellert wants to laugh, because he hadn’t held Albus’s hand in thirty-six years and his brain isn’t responding at all. He’s happy and he’s sad, terrified and spirited, and there’s so much in his mind he’s afraid that if he as much as opens his mouth, he’ll ruin it. So, he doesn’t say anything, but somehow Albus understands, because he always does, and they just sit there, holding hands, quiet for several minutes after Albus hands him one of the many sweets he carries in his pocket. It is late in the graveyard and everyone around in miles is probably already in bed. Godric’s Hollow has never been an exciting town. Tall trees cover the stars and small creatures are singing a litany of vowels that mean home. The wind is howling, the sweet in Gellert’s mouth is tasty, and for once in a very long time, nothing hurts.

♠

** _Leaky Cauldron, London, England. 25 October 1935._ **

On the furthest table to the right, in the darkest corner, far away from prying ears yet exposed enough that it cannot be considered a private meeting, two men, Aurors both of them, are staring into their drinks, engrossed in a deafening silence. Their faces are dark, their shoulders hunched, and their drinks have gone untouched for the fifteen minutes they’ve been there. The older of the two, a man whose face looks as if carved out of wood, is drinking from his own flask which he has left on top of the table, and he hasn’t ordered any food. The other is waiting for his Roast Hog, although he may ignore that just the same as his butterbeer.

Once the hog is delivered to their table, Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody takes a long sip of his flask, apparently bracing himself for the upcoming conversation. Then he says: “Why did you want to see me, Potter?”

James Potter starts chopping his meat, looking almost relaxed, although the tension hasn’t left his shoulders. “Dumbledore said he doesn’t want to get involved, and now Fawley is doing pretty much the same thing, too,” he says.

The older Auror recoils in his chair, and his left eye moves madly in his skull while the other one seems to be watching something that happened a long time ago, on one corner of the table. He hardly ever says anything about himself, but the young man across from him knows that he became an Auror in July of 1900, right before Grindelwald’s first attack in Paris. What should’ve been a smooth initiation quickly had turned into a desperate chase, where every Auror in Europe got assigned to the task of identifying and detaining Grindelwald’s followers, only for the man to break them all out of prison in weeks. He knows what everyone says, what the younger generations think. They don’t believe Grindelwald did much, but it was over five years of terror and exhaustion for every Auror in the continent. People like Fawley, they underestimate him merely because he didn’t murder any wizards at the beginning. The first one had been an accident, the Italian, from 1900’s Hallowe’en, and after him, Grindelwald’s followers had been more careful. All because Gellert Grindelwald insisted that his war wasn’t against _them_. But muggles had been killed since the beginning. Just because Grindelwald himself wasn’t the one with the largest body count didn’t mean a thing, when _he_ was the one that animated the Eiffel Tower that killed 50 muggles on his very first public act, and he’d only been seventeen years old. Anyone who dared underestimate such a menace _deserved _to be proved wrong, but innocent lives shouldn’t be lost in the process.

“Someone has to do something. Grindelwald is a genuine danger to the world,” adds James Potter, fire in his eyes and his fork forgotten with a piece of meat still pinched in it.

“He is,” Moody agrees easily, nodding. “Very well, what do you suggest?”

Alastor Moody didn’t have the _pleasure _of training James Potter, but he’s known him for a very long time. He understands quickly what the smile on his face means, and he’s ready to say yes before he’s heard any details.

“We’re going to need people we can trust. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I have a few,” says James.

♠

** _London, England. 27 October 1935._ **

Sundays are usually their lazy day. Sirius doesn’t have to go to work, and Remus, since he makes his own schedule and works from home, usually doesn’t do anything that day either, and they stay in bed ridiculously long hours — they even eat lunch in bed! It’s a habit they picked up after they turned their Saturdays on date night, although they only go out when there is a new muggle movie they want to see. It’s been almost a month since the last one they watched — an American one, called ‘_Top Hat_’.

That Sunday is different. They received a letter in code the day before, from James, and at nine in the morning they’re already up and dressed to visit the Potter’s residence.

It is only when they’re both standing by the chimney, however, that Sirius realizes Remus is going with him.

“What are you doing?” Sirius’s voice is particularly high, a tone it only takes when he’s particularly stressed and scared. “You can’t come! It’s too dangerous, Moony, I…!”

“And _you_ can?” Remus interrupts him, although he’s the definition of calm. His stance is relaxed, and the way his eyebrows are arched has an air of mean amusement. “Forget it, Healer Black, you are not going to go play hero while I wait at home with your dinner.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sirius whispers, expression heartbreakingly sad.

Remus’s face softens at that, and he extends a hand that his husband immediately grasps. “I know what you meant, Pads. But I’m not going to ask you not to fight because it’s dangerous, no matter how much it scares me. Please, refrain from doing that as well, okay?”

“I love you,” says Sirius, his mere gaze immediately robbing Remus’s breath.

“I love you too,” he answers anyway, because he’s been living in that state for a few years now.

“Euphie…”

“Euphie needs us both,” he replies, and Sirius winces. He sighs. “Today we’re probably just going to talk. Nobody knows where Grindelwald is, but he certainly isn’t in the United Kingdom. You can relax.”

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, his face a painting of worry, but he nods. “Okay. I’ll try to do that. But let’s go, or we’re going to be late.”

Remus doesn’t comment that they’re in fact going to be early. He holds Sirius’s hand instead, and then gives him an encouraging smile. “Let’s go, my dear.”

They go, and in a matter of seconds they’re standing hand in hand in front of a pacing, stressed-looking James. Lily is sitting on one side of the couch and waves a hand at them, while Peter, who is next to her, gives them a nervous smile.

“Hey guys, thanks for coming. You’re the only ones here so far, but it’s early,” says James, rubbing his forehead with a hand. “More people should be coming, though.”

“He’s been like that since four this morning,” mutters Lily.

“Hey, man, relax,” says Sirius, walking up to James and passing one arm around his shoulders. “We all just want to hear what you have to say about the investigation, okay? We’re all on the same side, us and the other people that are coming.”

James gulps and nods. “Yeah, I know. I know.” He leans on Sirius and sighs. “I’m just a little nervous. I know it’s just a gathering, but it may be just a tiny bit illegal?”

“What?” Peter yelps. “Why? James, I can’t lose my job! I’m already broke, I—”

“You’re not going to lose your job,” Remus interrupts him, “because we’re not going to be discovered, right, Prongs? Lily?”

“Remus is right,” she says, patting Peter’s knee. “No one but James is in danger of being accused of a crime today, not really. Well, maybe I am, but I could get off if I really tried,” she smirks. “Which I won’t. But we’ll be fine, because we trust in all the people we invited. Alright?”

James nods enthusiastically at that. “Yes, we do!”

“Okay, you need to smoke, let’s go outside get some fresh air before people start coming, okay?” says Sirius, effectively dragging his friend away.

“What is going on, Lily?” Remus asks softly, trying not to show exactly what he’s thinking just to appease Peter, but certain that the redhead can understand him anyway.

She takes a deep breath, gaze fixed in the direction her husband left. “You’ll find out in a minute, Rem.”

And she’s right. In a matter of minutes, the Potters’ living room fills with people, some he knows, some he doesn’t, but it is clear what it is they have all in common.

They’re all fighters, one way or another. Expert duellists or renowned searchers or combat-trained healers. Yet not a single one, aside perhaps from Alastor Moody, is a high ranking official. They have little to none political power, even as a group. He’s not surprised to see the Prewet brothers and several other Aurors he has seen with James at some point in the last decade. He also recognizes more than one friend Sirius made while doing his residency in St Mungo’s. The only minister worker from an office job seems to be Peter, though, and the only other one that’s apparently the sole representative of their profession is Professor McGonagall. Then again, to Remus’s knowledge, she’s the only Hogwarts professor who was an Auror for a couple of years.

Lily sends Peter to fetch for James and Sirius and welcomes everybody with the tranquillity of someone who’s having a tea party and the solemnity of a general at a war council.

Remus realizes with a start that the second analogy may not be so far from reality, and as subtly as he can, he finds his way next to Sirius to calm his racing heart.

“Thank you all for coming,” says James, taking the time to stare into the eyes of each and everyone of his guests, smiling gratefully at them. “It means a lot.”

“Go straight to the point, Mr. Potter, please,” replies Professor McGonagall, giving him a stern look.

Judging by the way she says his name, she clearly does not see the difference between him and his sixteen-year-old son. It doesn’t feel nearly as belittling as reason tells him it should feel. James represses a smile, licks his lips, and takes a deep, calming breath to gather his thoughts.

“Very well… you all must know that Grindelwald is a legitimate danger to the world, yes?”

“When has that ever been doubted?” asks one of the Aurors Remus didn’t know before, who Lily had introduced to him as Edgar Bones.

“Our lovely minister doesn’t see it that way,” says Alastor with a sneer before downing half the contents of his flask.

“What do you mean?” asks Marlene, who has been to their house every so often since she and Sirius saved a wizard’s life after the head healer had dismissed their symptoms. She does not work for the ministry, and probably knows even less about the investigation than Remus does.

“British forces are officially done with the chase,” explains another Auror, wearing a sombre look. “Not only he isn’t a priority, he’s not even on the list of tasks. Fawley decided he isn’t a menace to Great Britain.”

“No way!”

“Are you planning on doing something?”

“What is he going to do? What are _we _going to do? We’re hardly an army.”

“I agree. Besides, if that’s what the minister thinks best, then…”

“Do I have to remind you,” mad-eye Moody’s voice raises over all the others, “that at the time he was finally stopped, his followers surpassed the population of Germany?” He passes his eyes over every single one of them before continuing. “James Potter may come off as a naïve schoolboy at times, but he’s far from stupid. He’s inventive, which is different. And if he invited you here, you should feel honoured, for it means he believes you’re up to the difficult task we’ve got in our hands. If the ministry is not going to do something, then we must be prepared, if not to start a war, then to fight one when it comes knocking on our door. We must be prepared for a danger that’s indubitably coming. It’s either that, or attempt to ignore it all and live comfortably until everything is cruelly and abruptly taken from you, including probably your lives.”

Most of them keep silence and avoid Moody’s eye, although the rumble of wood against wood from people awkwardly shifting in their chairs fills the air quickly.

“I mean,” mumbles Benjy Fenwick, who Remus barely remembers from Hogwarts as a very pragmatic Ravenclaw and apparently is now an Auror, “it was 1905. The world population has like, doubled. It sounds way more impressive than what it was.”

“Nearly sixty thousand people _is _impressive.”

“Of course.”

“And I assure you, he’ll have even more people now.”

“Maybe not,” says Peter, with a hopeful look that borders on delusional. “I mean, many of his past followers were arrested, and I’m sure it won’t be as easy for him to convince new people to join his cause now that he’s a fugitive.”

“Still, we’re going to need more people,” says another Auror Remus didn’t know, one Kingsley Shacklebolt, who arrived with Moody and has stayed by his side, wearing a frown.

“It would be a good thing if we can get more members, of course,” agrees James easily, “but there is one specific person I think we need to get on board, I just don’t know how. It would be a good thing if one of you could come up with an idea.”

Remus takes a deep breath as he looks around, certain that everyone else must have guessed who James is referring to. Still, he asks: “Who?”

James smirks. “Professor Dumbledore, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sure most of you know that there appears to be some continuity errors regarding the character of McGonagall (I guess they did it so Dumbledore could be the DADA teacher) —although in ‘Fantastic Beasts: Crimes of Grindelwald’ they never actually say ‘Minerva’, so she could be a different person, but in the wiki they include her teaching to Newt and Leta, even when they say she went to Hogwarts under Headmaster Armando Dippet, but normally that would’ve been after 1925. Still, I made the marauders be born over 60 years sooner, so I guessed I could do the same with her.
> 
> Also, I can’t believe I watched Nazi propaganda videos for the miserable paragraph of Gellert visiting Berlin. The things I do for fanfic. Yikes.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I had my finals these past two weeks and my mental health was not at its best :/ (you may ask, finals? in September? Yeah, well, that's what happens when you go on strike for three months, and here near the South Pole we're finishing winter, not summer.)
> 
> Also, I've had the outline for this chapter ready before I started publishing, and then when I started really working on it, it kept and kept growing, and I like to keep chapters more or less on a similar word count, so I decided to split it in two. Next chapter is almost ready, so maybe I'll be uploading that in just a few days, if you like this one!

** _46 Whymark Ave, Noel Park, London, England. 29 October 1935._ **

Getting a meeting with Albus Dumbledore turns out not to be as simple as once James had thought.

The first letter he sends, asking if he can stop by and have some tea, the professor answers two full days later, saying he would be delighted, but that he has many essays to grade and that for at least the next couple of weeks he won’t be much fun. James wishes to disagree, but he sees the indirect and doesn’t immediately insist. He writes a letter, but he doesn’t send it. He doesn’t send the five he writes after that one either. Eventually he decides to write to Remus and ask him for advice, but the published novelist doesn’t know what to do either. It’s ridiculous. Professor Dumbledore is ridiculous. James is tempted to send a simple letter with few lemon sweets to do the bribe, but Lily dismisses his idea arguing that, no matter how relaxed and unpretentious he may have acted as their teacher, Albus Dumbledore still is one of the most powerful wizards to have ever lived, and winning him over cannot be as simple as offering biscuits.

“But sherbet lemons are different,” James had argued weakly at some point, only half-heartedly defending it, “he really likes those. He always has some in his pockets.”

“He clearly knows something is up with you. We’ve never invited him over for tea before. He knows we want something, and he is reluctant to even listen. Sweets won’t be enough to sway him.”

James knows that she is right, of course. Lily is always right. But he genuinely no longer knows what to do. Insisting won’t be enough. The man was his teacher for seven years, so he knows that persistence will get him nowhere. There is no such thing as tiring Albus Dumbledore out. He needs to interest him somehow, but he cannot say anything of value on a letter that could be intercepted. Not only he is going against the ministry’s wishes by pursuing an officially closed investigation, but he’s also going against the man considered the most powerful dark wizard of all times. He can’t just write to Dumbledore that he wants his help to beat the man.

He includes his dilemma in the bi-weekly letter he writes to his son and is delighted when, for the first time in four days, he receives a helpful answer:

_I took pity of you and decided to try my luck at convincing Professor Dumbledore to visit you, so I went to his office and stayed for biscuits and tea. He certainly is busy — the pile of essays on his desk is higher than our fridge! But he admitted he could use a distraction from the fourth year’s hopeless work. He’s waiting for you to confirm if he can visit for an hour on Thursday._

He’s writing the yes before he’s done reading the paragraph, and he almost sends it without signing it. Once that is done, he finds his wife and catches her in a tight embrace that lifts her feet off the ground while they twirl, pressing their lips together in a ravishing kiss, full of relief and triumph and excitement.

Lily giggles when they break apart. “What was that for?”

“Our son is a _genius_!” replies James, eyes glimmering with pride and anticipation.

She cocks her hip out and rests one hand there. “Is he, now?”

James hums. “He convinced Dumbledore. He’s coming on Thursday, for an hour or so. I guess we don’t have to worry about feeding him.”

“We better hide the sweets, or he won’t leave any for the children.”

“That’s a good idea,” James agrees easily. “You’re a genius too, of course.”

“One doesn’t have to be a genius to make that assessment, Auror Potter. We’re talking about Albus Dumbledore, and a lot of kids will be ringing that doorbell on Thursday.”

They always do, on Hallowe’en. Although with a Dark Wizard on the loose, will that year be the same? Lily wonders.

♠

** _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland. 31 October 1935._ **

Before he leaves, Albus reads once more the first letter James Potter had sent him. The intent is obvious. The boy had been one of his favourite students, but they didn’t precisely keep in touch.

Truth be told, after reading the letter three times, he still hadn’t known what to do. James had been among the Aurors that visited him with Travers when they asked him to join the chase. He’d heard Albus say that he wouldn’t neglect his job. Thus, he had answered accordingly, albeit a little late, claiming to be busy, and he’d been relieved when Potter didn’t immediately insist. He’d been a remarkable student not only because of his intelligence, but for his initiative and resourcefulness, which is just a tiny bit concerning for Albus, given the current circumstances. Even now, Albus isn’t sure if he didn’t outright plan for Harry to convince him, but the fact remains that Albus agreed in meeting with him, and there’s no going back now.

He had lost that battle as soon as he told the boy to come in two days prior.

He had just received Gellert’s request to meet at midnight when Harry had knocked on his door. Had he not been interrupted, he probably would’ve stared at the piece of paper for a long time, but he was forced to put it away.

Harry had definitely noticed —he had seen the paper flying to the top of a shelf—, but instead of using it to his advantage, he gave Albus time to clear his mind and entangled him in a stimulating yet innocent conversation on the spell he had last taught his class.

That darling boy; Albus may like him more than he liked any of his parents. He made it look so effortless, being a good person. And that made his attempts at manipulation all the more admirable and somewhat even endearing, how he did his best to keep his integrity while engaging in questionable tactics, like he’d done that afternoon.

After almost forty minutes of animated conversation, he had seemed genuinely surprised by the time and had turned apologetic, saying:

_“Oh, look at the time! I’m so sorry. My father told me you sounded particularly busy on your last letter.” He pushes his chair back, but he doesn’t stand up. “I’m sorry for distracting you. I didn’t think I would stay so long. But time really goes fast when I’m with you, professor.”_

_Albus hums and gives him a knowing smile, telling the boy without a word that he knew all along Harry wasn’t there to talk about their last class. “Don’t worry,” he says, “talking to students about things I’m teaching them it’s literally on my job description, Harry.”_

_“Right,” he clears his throat, looking just a tiny bit uncomfortable, and eventually gives in and sighs. “He didn’t send me. He just complained about it because that’s what he does,” he smiles sheepishly, “he always includes whatever’s been driving him mad at the time. And on his last letter, it was his inability to get a hold of you. I’m not even sure why he wants to see you.”_

_Albus has a pretty good idea, and he presumes Harry does, too. He arches one eyebrow._

_“I suspect it is related to that,” admits Harry, blushing lightly. “You were the one to stop him, after all. But since the ministry already tried to recruit you, I honestly don’t know what he’s going for.” He runs a hand through that messy hair of his that makes him look so much like his father and throws his head back, resting it on the headrest of the chair, but still managing to make eye-contact. “You asked me not to tell anyone,” he recalls, and Albus’s blood runs cold for an instant, “and I intend to keep my word, professor. Still, if I may ask, would it be so bad to meet with my father? Just to hear what he has to say? Only if you have the time, of course.”_

If he really wanted, he always could _make _the time for it. He was organized, mostly because he never liked finishing assignments too close to the deadline, and the truth was that no matter how busy he should be in theory, his routine allowed him to always manage long breaks, at any time of the year. Not having the time had always been just an excuse. But he never intended to let others know that.

Sometimes, he tries to think back to a time where he hadn’t needed to keep so many secrets. It was so long ago, it’s hard to be certain of the credibility of his memories, even with that artefact he designed to watch them as close to factuality as possible. But there aren’t enough memories in the first place, to try and analyse whether he turned into such a secretive person out of necessity, or he was simply always that way. He didn’t know that many people before he turned ten — which was when the secrets started. He had to learn pretty fast how to make his way around half-truths and at this point that’s just how he interacts with the world.

Sitting in front of Harry, often it’s almost as if he’s forgotten how to lie.

It isn’t that he’s intimidated by the subtle threat — he is perhaps foolish in doing so, but he believes Harry doesn’t wish to tell others what Albus confided in him. He trusts the boy, and he sees in him the potential to do great things. Getting the chance to help him achieve such things is one of the greatest pleasures about teaching — and Albus really likes his job. He likes doing good without the glory, and he likes witnessing the beginning of wonderful stories.

And if he really wishes to witness the rest of Harry Potter’s, which without a doubt will be a remarkable one, then he cannot let the boy down on things that matter.

And, Merlin be damned, Gellert’s escape matters to everyone.

So he had sighed and leaned back on his chair, smiling ruefully while saying:

_“If I find the time…” he bites his index finger and pretends to think about, “I believe on Thursday I could escape for an hour or so. I shall be correcting some fourth years’ assignments and,” he grins, “I could use the break.”_

Harry’s face had lighted up at his words, and even though dread rose in his stomach, Albus couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not even as he stands on his way to face two brilliant ex students of his that will probably keep him on his toes for their entire meeting. Telling Harry that he no longer felt obligated to stop Grindelwald had been ridiculously easy, but he cannot even imagine having such a conversation with the boy’s mother.

“You have a lovely home,” he says with a smile, projecting all the tranquillity he _doesn’t _feel once they’ve exchanged greetings. In avoiding the woman’s intelligent eyes, he finds himself studying the drained looking man; he’s paler than Albus remembers, messy hair even more dishevelled, as if someone’s been running their hands constantly through it, and his skin is scaly and dry.

“Thank you, professor,” replies Lily, her own smile not reaching her eyes. She was obviously studying him. What she may think of Albus having no reaction to her husband’s appearance is a mystery. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I would love some, yes. Thank you.”

He sits on the couch and forces his limbs to stay relaxed, but it’s difficult when they know just as well as he does that he will not have a good time. But he’s a good actor —has been one for most of his life—, and he looks perfectly at ease when they join him on the loveseat that’s closest to him, on his right.

“I’m sure you know why we invited you here,” says James, grinning sheepishly. At his side, Lily looks a lot more solemn and cautious.

Albus smiles. “I have a few guesses, yes.”

“The minister decided Britain shouldn’t bother with Grindelwald anymore,” James says, expression growing dark fast. “You’ll understand that is a foolish decision, I’m sure.”

Albus takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, giving James a sympathetic look. “I’m sure the minister didn’t make such a decision without thinking about it, James.”

“That doesn’t guarantee he arrived at the right conclusions, Professor,” replies Lily fiercely.

“That is true,” he admits. He doesn’t say that the minister is most definitely wrong though. “But what exactly can we do about it? He and I are hardly acquaintances, but I’ve got the impression he’s a man who does not take criticism well.”

“Critiquing him will get us nowhere,” says James. “That battle is a lost one. But we cannot give up on the war just for that.”

“You’re… not speaking metaphorically, I gather?”

James shakes his head. “Grindelwald wanted a war before, and we have no reason to believe he’s not going to try to start another one now that he’s free again. We need to be ready.”

“Of course.”

“But waiting around until he decides is time to take over the world is not much better than what Fawley’s doing. Just… training ourselves for a possible fight, for scarcity and death, it is not enough. We need to go even further. So, I’ve been talking to people, people who, like us,” he points at Lily and himself, “are not willing to take a step back and let Grindelwald grow stronger without resistance.” He licks his lips, that aren’t as dry as they have been before the incessant flow of words abandoned him. “We’re not that many yet, but we’ll get there. We’re not an army, we couldn’t fight an open war, but we could try to make things harder for him, with the right planning.”

“You mean to use spies.”

James grimaces. “I don’t really like it. It is dangerous and,” he frowns, “well, nasty. But if that’s what it takes, then yes.” He leans forward. “What do you think, Professor? Would you be interested in joining us? Because we are interested in having you on our side.”

Even thinking about ‘officially’ being on the side of spies that will go against Gellert makes Albus’s stomach protest, but he’s confident he doesn’t show it. Still, he deliberately does not pay attention to Lily’s face. He stares only into James’s optimistic, fervent eyes and then has to close his own, for it is too much to handle. He knows what the ‘right’ answer is. He does not know how to even try and give the wrong one.

Thus, he says: “Of course.” He knows his smile is tense, but that’s the best he can do while his head is pounding, and he tastes bile at the back of his throat. “However, what I told to your boss the other day still remains. My priority will always be,” he dares to stare into the woman’s eyes for the first time, because that is the one part of his speech which is true and uncomplicated, “to protect the children that are under my care.”

“Yes, of course,” says Lily, nodding slowly. She’s not as openly excited as her husband, who is practically bouncing in his chair with a huge beam, but her happiness is palpable. Her relief is, too.

And Albus really needs to go before he throws up.

“You’ll understand that I need to return to Hogwarts soon. I can’t miss the feast!” His smile turns playful, his tone light-hearted, and as the tension in the room immediately lessens, he feels like a winner. His heart still is threatening with bursting out of his chest at any moment, though. He really needs to go.

“Of course,” says James, standing up, and that is his cue, “but do you promise to come back on November 2nd? Everyone else should be here, too.”

“I’ll do my best,” Albus nods, hoping —no, praying to his mother’s God, which he had almost forgotten all about— something will happen, and he’ll be able to get out of it with a clean conscience.

Not that his conscience has ever been clean.

♠

** _Paris, France. Six hours earlier._ **

The clouds are dark out of Gellert’s window for most of the day, and it matches his mood. Hallowe’en used to be one of his favourite holidays to cause mayhem, but this year they aren’t ready yet, so they stay in. In the last thirty years he never had anything resembling a celebration, but he’s starting to think it was easier that way, without seeing others —without seeing _muggles_— having a blast while he has to hide. He never liked hiding. It’s one of his defects. So he lays on his favourite divan in the living room and gloomily looks out the window.

He cannot deny that there’s no comparison between the current need for discretion and the past absolute isolation he’d been forced into, and he obviously appreciates the improvement, but it is still upsetting, for it is not freedom. Freedom is an absolute. One cannot be moderately free, just like one cannot be moderately dead, or moderately in love. Moderately alive, however, is a concept he can understand. There are some circumstances which cannot be described as really living, merely surviving, and there is an abysmal difference between those two. Everything a person needs to survive are the essentials for the body, whereas truly living demands one’s mind to be fully committed to the prospect of existing within a dynamic society, which shifts according to one’s interactions with it. One must act, to be living; not just _react_. One needs to engage with their fate and challenge it in an effort to reach a particular purpose.

Over the course of thirty years, there hadn’t been much Gellert could do to change the world, but he still tried. He wrote letters and gave directions and addresses and strategies that could work even implemented by others. He involved in passionate debates with hundreds of strangers from all over the world to finally convince each and every one of them of his views. He studied the facts, he evaluated their options, and he designed new movements, not struggling much to adapt even at the speed the outside world functioned; a world that had tried in vain to leave him completely out. But it never could. Not while he still considered that world worth saving — which would be as long as Albus lived in it.

It is true, however, that the thought of renouncing to it all had crossed his mind, during the first couple of months of his third year of imprisonment. It had been long, but not nearly long enough, and he’d been tired.

Really tired.

He had wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just leave the world carry on with its destructive path. From where he was standing, it wouldn’t have been much of a difference to him. A thriving world was no different than a decadent one, for he still wasn’t a part of it. Furthermore, he had _tried _to improve things and they had casted him aside — they had locked him away when they didn’t like the methods he used to grab the attention they refused him in the first place. That had been their first mistake, and it was what had brought later on so much death. Thus, his exhausted mind inside a beaten and malnourished body wondered why he was insisting. The world not only didn’t want him, they clearly didn’t deserve him either, so why not give up entirely? Why not let them be? Why not abandon the world that was trying so hard to abandon him in turn?

Well, to put it simple, the world still _hadn’t_ abandoned him. Not only he received dozens of letters from his followers every day —he couldn’t care less about those at times—, he also received letters from Albus. Moreover, he received inquiries to come and _visit_ him. He refused each and every single time, of course, but that wasn’t important. What was really important was that Albus was _there_, and that he gave him a reason to want to challenge fate. Especially after he had particularly bad visions involving him.

At first, the magical wards in his prison cell made it extremely difficult for him to have visions, but more and more, without an apparent reason or an explanation beyond his own body getting used to it, the visions came back. And of course, the first ones to do so were always bad.

He didn’t have a single positive vision in his first fourteen years of imprisonment. No, for fourteen years, whenever he Saw the exterior world, he saw it burning.

A knock on the door interrupts his honestly depressing line of thinking, but he keeps his gaze out the window even as the person enters the room after he told them to do so. Of course, that when he’s having a bad day, Tom Riddle of all people comes to visit. He really doesn’t like the guy.

“Good afternoon, my Lord. Rosier told me you didn’t have plans for today, so I checked, and now would be a good time to meet with the Führer. He’s been waiting since your escape. He’s highly interested in exploring all the ways our movements could help each other.”

“I’m not particularly eager to meet with that muggle, Tom,” says Gellert, purposefully showing his disinterest on the prospect, but repressing the grimace that wants to form on his face. It is more than disinterest. He genuinely _does not _want to meet the man.

“I can handle all the negotiations with him if you want, my Lord,” says Riddle then, trying to sound helpful but being way too pleased with the turn of events.

That is enough to change Gellert’s mind. He can’t help a little pettiness.

“Oh, but you’ve already been handling it for quite some time, haven’t you?” He sighs and straightens on the divan, placing his feet on the ground. “No, I guess I should at least meet with him, even if later you carry on with the direct communication.”

“Of course. It is okay in few minutes, then?”

Gellert wants to hex the man. But he smiles and nods instead. “In few minutes.”

“Maybe you could bring your skull-hookah?”

It takes an incredible strength not to show his exasperation, but he manages, and nods again. “Sure. That’s a good idea.” It’s in fact a terrible idea, but he cannot find in himself the patience to try and have _that_ conversation.

In a matter of minutes, the two of them are standing in a luxurious studio not far from where Gellert had stayed just a couple of days before, in the middle of Berlin. A man he recognizes from pictures is standing up from where he’d been sitting, and is already smiling, clearly happy to see them and not at all shocked to two grown men appearing in his chimney, even though a muggle hardly becomes familiar with that kind of thing.

Tom makes the introductions, and Hitler rounds his desk to stand closer to them. He offers his hand to Gellert, and for less than a second, he wonders what would happen if he didn’t grip it, but he decides it is not the time to test theories and moves before his discomfort can be noticed. The shake is short yet firm, not meant to establish dominance but rather establish a delicate power balance which intends to pretend they’re on the same level. They’re not. Gellert doesn’t even need to open his mouth to get the upper hand, not when they’re alone in an office. Without guns and the men in his power, Hitler has nothing on Gellert. But this is a political meeting, and they’re still under the impression that they’re virtually on the same side.

They aren’t.

But Gellert allows the conversation to flow with the complicity it would if they were, and he uses all the right words and makes all the right sounds and the right expressions.

“With Mr. Riddle we were discussing which could be the most effective way to tell the muggle masses about magic, and he suggested you had something uniquely mesmerizing and impossible to disguise,” comments Hitler eventually, after they’ve run out of pleasantries and flatteries and innocuous strategies of war.

Gellert is really tired now. He would much rather be staring out the window, waiting to see muggle children go around asking for sweets, but he’s stuck there, and it’s not even three in the afternoon yet, so he manages a sly smile and gives Riddle a side-glance that it’s supposed to look amused and maybe even approving.

In reality, Gellert does not feel either of those things towards the man, who is definitely out of his right mind, but it’s always come naturally to him to keep his cards close to his chest. And so, he takes out his skull-hookah and does a little demonstration; just a short vision he had earlier that month, about those damned red flags hanging everywhere in what is clearly Paris.

Hitler absolutely adores it.

He doesn’t even try to hide his fascination, but his interest is not belittling — it is an elegant display of a lack of arrogance, although Gellert cannot tell how genuine that may be. He cannot know how much the other two prepared in advance for their meeting, and that is undoubtably to their favour, but Gellert is not going to overestimate them. He is conscious of his own power and doesn’t fear them. Besides, the Austrian muggle is not as disarmingly charming as the media kept saying, and once again, Gellert has the thought that if one thing is remarkable about their regime, it is their propaganda techniques. That Goebbels guy is one to watch out for.

Once that display is over, their meeting doesn’t extend much. They discuss one or two dates, mention a number or four, and then it’s all over when they agree that the world will be in trouble. Before they go in the chimney, Hitler grasps Gellert’s arm and pulls him in for a quick hug, brusquely patting him on the back and smiling like he just had the time of his life.

Gellert has the sudden urge to use his own fists to inflict harm for the first time in… well, the first time since Riddle last pissed him off. It hasn’t been that long, really. It is truly a blessing when he’s finally away from that pair in his favourite divan of the living room, _free _to look out the window into the streets where careless people go on with their day as if brutality wasn’t approaching at a raging speed.

“My Lord?” Vinda, who had entered comfortably with confident steps that came to an abrupt end the moment she saw him, is now staring at him with some apprehension on her face, concern in her eyes and shoulders tense as if she was ready for battle. “How was your meeting?”

As soon as the question leaves her mouth, he goes back to looking out the window and sighs.

“They’re the same,” he says.

“I’m sorry?”

“Riddle and Hitler. They’re… they’re birds of a feather.” And the thought makes him shiver. They’re not the kind of people that should hold any power, with their toxic ideas. He shakes his head, eyes fleeting to the door from which he returned warily. “Don’t you see it? What Hitler is doing with the muggles, Riddle wants to do to us as well. Just, using different parameters.” Blood purity instead of ethnicity and race. None precisely a determining factor of anything, according to Gellert.

He brusquely stands up and starts pacing around, undoing the top three buttons of his shirt because he’s suddenly suffocating. “We’ll have to be very careful, Vinda. Things are going to get very complicated once the war begins.” For he knows they’ll have to fight on two fronts, and he can tell that she knows it too.

For once it feels like a _problem_ that most magical governments still won’t listen to him. He still considers them mediocre and wishes for their downfall or submission —the one way he sees to finally abolish the Statute of International Secrecy—, but he never wanted the _world _to end, never intended it to become a literal hell. Now he needs to save it, because that’s the only world they have, and he fully intends to _live_ in it. When his thoughts become too much, he lives that room and goes to his study, where paper, feather and ink fly towards him only to stop in mid-air with a lazy command from his hand. There, he keeps pacing, while thoughts are bound to paper, and even though his hair is short, he pushes some flocks away from his forehead because anything feels too warm on his skin, but at barely four in the afternoon, and on a day he fully intends to watch attentively the outside world, he decides to keep his clothes on.

Before he’s even done composing the letter, he calls his favourite bird — he never had an owl, growing up. He had a cat, and he used the school owls whenever he needed one. Then, as an adult, he found other ways to correspond with people, and he never had the need to get one for himself. But this bird is special. It’s not an owl, for instance, and the only letters he’s ever had to deliver have been between his owner and Gellert. He’s thought in the past that such tasks were beneath the majestic creature, but the usually haughty bird seemed to like the excuse to travel extraordinary distances in order to go through all the trouble of delivering untraceable letters between the two only humans the bird allows to frequently pet him.

He opens a window and offers him some treats —some for him, and some for the man he’s sending the letter to— as soon as he gets there, which sadly isn’t very soon. The route is problematic, hence the reason he called him with some advance. It’s been almost two hours and he hasn’t done much beyond pacing, which is a questionable act from a dedicated leader, but an understandable one from a very troubled man.

He has no doubt he will win the war that is coming, no matter what his visions have told him. He still has no real desire to actually go through it. Wars bring nothing but sorrow to anyone involved.

He really, really doesn’t want to bring any sorrow to Albus. Not on top of what he has already caused. He will ask for his advice, but not for his direct involvement — not unless it becomes absolutely necessary.

And if anyone went to try and gratuitously sucked him into the mess that’s about to come, they will most certainly have to answer to Gellert.

♠

** _Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland._ **

Before the feast, Albus stops by his room and is surprised when he finds a letter on top of his bed heavily scented of lemon. And sure enough, there are several sherbet lemons on the inside, and though he recognizes the penmanship right away, the sweets already told them who the sender was. He narrows his eyes and locates Fawkes watching him eerily from a chair, so he shakes his head, but his smile is tender.

“You need to be careful when answering to him, silly bird. Sneaking out without my permission isn’t a good idea.”

The phoenix gives him the closest thing a bird can give to a bored look. But he can hardly blame him. He writes to Gellert so often that the bird knows him better than any other human aside from himself. And when Albus himself is so smitten, how could the bird resist? Gellert is a charming man. He was charming before he turned seventeen, with his distant air that would vanish when it was just the two of them and be replaced with overwhelming intensity, his intelligence, his energy and his hands. He remained charming in his letters, all the while he threatened Europe with angry mobs that followed him everywhere and even later, once his only entertainment consisted on correspondence and sudokus.

The contents of his last letter aren’t as charming, though, and Albus sighs heavily as he sits down on his bed to finish it, preparing some paper and ink with a flick of his wandless hand, to answer. He doesn’t care that he might be late to the feast. He flexes his right arm to use as a pillow while the letter he’s still reading —it is, as most letters from Gellert, ridiculously long— floats in the air right in front of him. The main difference between it and the past ones is that now the voice and face he assigns to the words are slightly different. Deeper, older, but charming nevertheless. Before meeting him again in Godric’s Hollow he’d already known the man he would find would be charming, too. He’d known it. And he’d also known that trying to push down his impression would be impossible. He’s yet to find one person who could resist him. He’s not trying to justify himself. He knows that he’s wrong, indulging in such things. He sees his faults way more clearly than anyone else, and guilt overwhelms him more often than not, but he knows that he’s not going to turn Gellert in anytime soon. He already did it once, and it was _their _job to keep him locked up. Now, Albus isn’t nearly strong enough to face him and not melt on the spot. Not if Gellert is going to stand there, with hollow cheeks and worry in his eyes, speaking out his concern for the world with the ghost of a probably horrifying vision on his shoulders, sucking the life out of him. He knows, like someone knows the earth is round, that Gellert is a monster. And just like someone can’t tell when they’re standing in the middle of the desert or staring out the horizon by the coast that what they’re seeing isn’t in fact a straight line, despite their scientific knowledge, when Albus is next to Gellert, or reading one of his letters, he doesn’t see a monster. He can’t, when Gellert is so deeply affected by the horrors that others perform. Albus knows that Gellert isn’t _faking _it, but he hasn’t got a clue on how to connect that person with the monster that actively wishes to see muggles threatened and afraid of all magical creatures. A monster that is by all means _convinced _that such a world is a better alternative than what they currently have — which is fragile and unstable and violent, sure, but it is also what most people seem to prefer, and Albus believes in democracy, not tyranny. He doesn’t want to see his Gellert turned into a tyrant. He doesn’t want even more people to look at him, the one person that has had Albus’s heart in the palm of his hand for as long as they’ve known each other, and see nothing but thirst for power, because that is _not _what Gellert is. Gellert doesn’t have to thirst for power, because he already has it, naturally. Not only he was born with talent and money and incredible magic, he’s also brilliant and good with people. He’s the opposite of powerless and he’s been so for — well, less than half his life, now, but that had been all he’d known at the time he started executing his rebellion. A rebellion against the one group that stood over him, stripping him from a fundamental part of himself. Because just like rich people always want more gold, the powerful boy couldn’t fathom a world where he wasn’t the most powerful. But that was just the beginning, what kicked in his interest and drove him to read and study to come up with deep and frustrating conclusions that only fed his conviction with more anger and dread. The more he worked on it, the more he cared about all the others that weren’t nearly as powerful as him, and who were even more vulnerable to the one threat Gellert deemed intolerable. And as if the past hadn’t been evidence enough to him, Gellert also counted with the future, which seemed to only ever bring him more horrors to confirm his dramatic, fatalistic rhetoric.

It’s Hallowe’en, and his favourite monster isn’t out there, wreaking havoc, just like he hasn’t for the past thirty years. It’s almost disconcerting, and Albus feels terrible and his guilt is threatening with swallowing him whole, but he can’t help it, to wonder how different it’ll be this time, now that his monster knows exactly what it’s like to be powerless. He seems concerned with a new enemy, but he hasn’t abandoned his old goal, and whereas Albus does not want him to become a tyrant…

He still wants to see his Gellert change the world, for the better.

For the greater good.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> If any of you ever has trouble imagining young Dumbledore wearing robes instead of those suits they gave him on the movies, just check out ‘The Young Pope’ and you’ll be fine. Actually, if you haven’t watched it, for whatever reason, just go and do it now, because it is a masterpiece. Also, how attractive Jude Law is, is an actual plotline. I just love that show.

** _46 Whymark Ave, Noel Park, London, England. 2 November 1935._ **

When he arrives in the Potter residence on Saturday, he hopes he’s the last one there, for the house is packed full. James had told him the number of people that was coming, but he’s still a little stunned when he sees them all around the table — more because it is such a miscellaneous group, it results strange to see them all together.

He never doubted the group James Potter had gathered would be filled with extraordinary people. Some have that gift, of attracting multitudes, and James displayed that talent all through Hogwarts. Besides, as an Auror, he’s been in touch with other strong wizards and witches who share his morals and ideals. As Law enforcers, that usually means to stop those who break the law. Sure, some of them have a wider understanding of right or wrong, but they aren’t the majority. This fact no longer surprises Albus, but it will forever disappoint him. Still, he goes to the Potter residence with an open mind. After all, the mere existence of the group is defying the Minister’s wishes, thus none of them should be a thoughtless puppet, power with no criteria. He’s almost optimistic, though he can’t be as naïve as to hope they’ll all be willing to hear what he has to say — not after they realize he’s not as eager as they are to catch Gellert. But if he plays his cards right, then maybe they won’t notice. He just has to be careful. Extremely careful. They’re likely extraordinary people, after all.

First, he lets James talk. He listens as he recounts the previous meeting and introduces him to the few people he’s never met before. It’s only after he’s heard a dozen new names that they reach one that makes his stomach drop.

He’s barely seen Elphias in the last three decades, so it really isn’t that surprising that he doesn’t notice him until the last moment. It is odd, being so detached to someone that once knew almost everything about him. But it happens, people grow apart, drift away when their interests takes them down different paths. Secrets don’t help either, and Albus always kept too many for his own good.

Still, when their eyes meet, Elphias gives him a smile. Candid, genuine happiness breaks in his face with the sight of him — as if he’s both relieved and excited and Albus cannot blame him. The past always leaves a mark, and Albus’s delay on joining the chase at the beginning of the century after Elphias had been one of the first ones out there still hangs heavy on the air between them the few times they find each other in silence.

Albus always hated to disappoint people, even strangers, but disappointing his best friend haunted him for months. Years, really, for it still does whenever he remembers it. He knows he’s probably going to disappoint him once again at some point tonight and his stomach complains with the added anguish in his gut. It is not fair. But it was foolish of him to fail to foresee it.

“Shall we make a summary of our last meeting?” asks one nervous Peter Pettigrew. Albus hadn’t seen or heard of him since he graduated from Hogwarts.

James hums. “Sure. We introduced each other. Agreed Grindelwald was dangerous. Discussed resources and what measures we should take to be discreet.”

“We also decided today we should elaborate on what could be done if Great Britain was targeted by him and his followers,” says Kingsley Shacklebolt, whom Albus has met once or twice.

“We need to have contingency plans, of course,” James nods and licks his lips, brow furrowing slightly, “but I was thinking maybe today we should try to design an attack. We might still have time. I have a couple of friends in the continent who think they saw him.”

“We can’t be sure of that, though. More and more people are going to be saying that, some may even _believe _it, but it won’t be true,” says Moody. “We need to keep trying to infiltrate his army.”

“I know, but none of us have had any luck with that, have we? Besides, I have a good feeling about one in particular. It was last week, in Berlin.”

“Grindelwald was German, right?”

“Austrian, I think, but they speak German there. It would make sense, if he’s really there.”

“I believe our priority should be to find him,” says Sirius, placing one elbow on the table and leaning forward. “Having an attack ready could be useful, but not essential. Finding him, on the other hand…”

“I was thinking maybe we could put special attention on Hogwarts,” says one of the Prewet brothers, nodding towards Albus. “Since… you know, he’s probably going to seek revenge, right?”

Whispers of agreement flood the room along with jerks of heads and other affirmative sounds. They all seem to find the words more than reasonable and a logical, expectable course of action.

Albus is baffled.

“You think he would come for me?” he asks.

“Why yes, of course! _You _stopped him, sir!”

Albus stares at them, one by one, all those brave faces that were once so young. They still are, sure, but there’s a maturity in them that hadn’t been there when Albus was their teacher and guide. They make their own decisions now, even if they still wish to follow him. He needs to measure his words, he needs to…

He needs to make a decision. He _knows _that Gellert won’t be coming to Hogwarts. If he supports their idea, they’d be wasting eyes and resources that could be used elsewhere.

That would be used to catch Gellert.

They asked him to be there and never stopped to question whether they could trust him. Never even suggested he could ever deceive them. There are no doubts in the minds and hearts that surround him, that he is on their side. He has rarely trusted anyone in such a way. As an eleven-year-old, he hadn’t trusted his friends with the truth of his father’s crimes. As a seventeen-year-old, he hadn’t trusted his siblings with his plans and feelings. As an adult, he doesn’t trust anyone. He can mention snippets of his past under the right circumstances to a handful of people, but even that he does as vaguely as possible. The one person that knows him entirely is a wanted criminal whose own mind is like a labyrinth that Albus could never be as arrogant as to suggest he understands. In a way, he doesn’t trust Gellert either. He doesn’t trust him not to burn everything he touches. Doesn’t trust him not to be blind to the weak efforts of improvement done by governments and civilians that are still meaningful. Doesn’t trust him not to break his heart again with a display of cruelty that strips his great intentions from all their brightness.

He doesn’t know a third of the people in the room. He has no doubt they’re all extraordinary, and that their hearts and morals are on the right place. He doesn’t know if they could ever stop that monster of his. He doesn’t think so. The least he can do is trust them with a little of his truth. So, he smiles sadly, shakes his head, and confesses: “Oh, my dear. You are seriously mistaken.”

“Albus,” says Minerva, keeping her composure even when he knows her heart is about to explode with nerves and apprehension. She’s both, angry and scared. His calm frustrates her.

He wishes he could appease her, but he doesn’t think he will. He interrupts her nevertheless. “He contacted me.”

“What?!”

He hums and nods, waiting for everyone to settle down without having to tell them so. “I don’t think he intends to hurt me unprovoked.”

“What do you call sending him to prison?”

What, indeed. Not even Albus has the answer to that one. He’s not sure even Gellert does.

“Grindelwald never was a bloodthirsty killer, was he? He’s the leader of a political movement, if radical, but not violent for the sake of violence. And I believe his intention is to finish what he started. Which was never a genocide, but to change the world — for the better.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t fear him?”

“No,” he smiles, “that would be irresponsible of me. He is, after all, a powerful wizard who will not stop at anything to get what he wants.” He’s not going to tell them that what he wants is _good_, because there are times in which he’s not entirely sure of it himself. “But I’m telling you not to worry about him coming after me for petty vengeance or something like that. Nor shall you worry about him starting any violent confrontations. He’s proved to be smarter than that, and if he wants to gain new followers, he can never be the one to make the first attack.”

“But maybe he’s not interested in gaining new followers!”

“He can’t change the world through sheer intimidation.”

“He can try.”

“Why do you refuse to see your enemy the way he truly is? I already faced him once. I know why I’m telling you this. I’m not saying that we don’t need to prepare. A war _is _coming, for sure, and what you are doing is the responsible thing to do. But we need to be intelligent, not rash.”

“You took your sweet time thirty years ago, too,” says Elphias. It is the first thing he’s said all night, and Albus struggles to keep his face blank. “Lives could’ve been spared if you’d acted faster.”

“I know,” he admits, because it is true, and he does know it, “but I give you my word, I’ll do my best not to make that mistake ever again.” He swallows, and slowly passes his eyes around the room, over every single one of them. “I’m not telling you to do nothing. I’m just saying he won’t make the first move. And that he won’t come to Hogwarts. Not with an army, and certainly not to assassinate me.” He takes a deep breath as discreetly as he can, focusing on the way his lungs do not fill completely. “And Sirius is right. Finding him should be a priority. Do you know what to look for?”

“A tray of corpses?”

He almost rolls his eyes, but in avoiding it, he neglects the tight control he’d kept on his mouth and it shortly twists cruelly. “No,” he forces his expression back into a neutral one. “We need to look for whispers on the streets. Maybe it won’t be soon, but he’ll start with a rally.” He smiles playfully. “I doubt any government will authorize one, so it will probably be short. Meant to conquer the hearts of people who have not yet chosen a side, and even those who oppose him. If we let him speak, and then attack, we will look like the bad guys.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We stop him before he speaks,” says Remus, eyes narrowed and fixed on Albus. “If he’s making a rally, he’ll make some sort of publicity. We just need to pay attention. Be always open to communication. I imagine he won’t announce such a thing with much anticipation.”

“Exactly,” he nods with a pleased smile.

“But how did he contact you? What did he want?”

“He sent me a letter,” technically, not a lie, “and he told me he didn’t resent me.” He did that once, several years ago, so not a lie, either. Before he speaks true falseness, he closes his eyes for a moment, a silent apology. “He invited me to either join his side or try to stop him once again. Warned me that it would be harder this time.”

“To join his side?”

“That’s too good to be true,” rumbles Moody, shaking his head. “A trap, for sure. I know you’re tempted to use that to our advantage, Potter, but it would be a bad idea.”

James sighs and throws his head back. “Yeah, I know.”

“If we cannot get to him on that hypothetical first rally,” says Sirius, “we could always try to infiltrate his lines there. The whole purpose of those things is to get new followers. That could be our chance, if we don’t find another way sooner.”

The discussion turns into the schedules and abilities of the other guests, to Albus’s relief, and he listens carefully but refrains from commenting anything further. He considers he’s said more than enough, and he’s sure there is no need to clarify his strengths and weaknesses. They’re certainly not going to ask.

He isn’t the first one to leave, but he certainly isn’t the last one, and he knows that, not unlike the time Aurors interrupted his class in Hogwarts, his impassive disposition is disappointing to the group of brave, selfless individuals that only want to save the world. Many of them who were once children that looked up to him, and that pains him. He wishes he could always live up to their standards, but he cannot do much about other people’s opinions of him. He can try to be a good teacher, he can try to be a good person, and he can try not to say or do anything too incriminating that may open a window to his shameful past.

But.

This time, he did what he had to do. And he doesn’t regret it.

♠

** _13 November 1935._ **

Six days after their last meeting, which in turn had been five days after the last one, the Order is bound to meet again. They’re trying to meet always on a different day and on a different place, as to not establish a pattern that could be recognized. Even if what they’re doing is right, it still is very much illegal. It’s been, to some extent, also pointless. James himself went to Berlin the past weekend, but he didn’t find anything. Their plan of infiltrating Grindelwald’s lines of supporters is, in theory, a good one, but one they cannot yet begin with, since they simply have had no success in finding those supporters, even as there’s supposed to be a big number of them. He’s hoping, albeit with little optimism, to hear better news later that evening, but as he finishes brushing his teeth, his reflection stares back at him tiredly.

“Are you ready, Lil?”

He stops by the door of the living room, coat hanging from one arm, and stares puzzled at his wife, who is sitting on a couch and hasn’t yet put on her shoes, although they’re right next to her feet. “Lily?” he repeats, voice tainted with apprehension.

“Uh? Yeah, let me just put on my shoes…” she grabs her bag first and pushes in her wallet and some papers that had been lying by her side.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, even though that is a bit of a ridiculous, redundant question nowadays.

“Nothing, I was just thinking…” she steps on the floor firmly, using a finger to aid her feet slip in more easily, and looking at him from under her eyelashes, “the muggle general election is tomorrow.”

James frowns. “I thought the Prime Minister had resigned in June?”

“Yes. Baldwin —the man who replaced him— is probably going to stay in office. He used to advocate strongly for disarmament, but now…” she bits her bottom lip, “James, I’m worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“I believe there’s going to be another war.”

The Great War started on the summer before their fifth year at Hogwarts. James had wanted to fight, but his parents had stopped him. Most of the ones that had graduated that year, kids that were no more than three years older than James, had gone. It wasn’t a magical war, and they didn’t have as many casualties as muggles, but it had been a horrifying experience nevertheless, constantly reading about it, powerless to stop it, and unable to help those that were hurting.

“In his last letter, Dumbledore asked my opinion on international politics, and suggested me to pay close attention to them,” she adds, rearranging her hair to one side with one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. “You know how he is. You know nothing is casual when it comes to him.”

“You really believe there’s going to be another muggle war? And that Dumbledore is concerned about it?” He licks his lips and sits down on the couch next to her, folding one leg under himself. “Do you think Grindelwald might take advantage of the muggle war to push his so-called _peaceful_ agenda?”

She shrugs and looks away, biting her bottom lip anxiously. “It’s a possibility, don’t you think?”

“It is.” He arches his eyebrows and throws his head back against the couch, sighing. “Bollocks, why did Dumbledore have to be so vague? Doesn’t he trust us?”

“I think he just likes to keep his thoughts to himself.” She cannot say she doesn’t understand the sentiment. Discretion and caution are a witch’s best friends, especially for a muggle-born like herself. However, there are times when one needs to share certain things, to the right people.

She really thinks they are the right people, but it worries her that Dumbledore may think otherwise.

“That’s one way of putting it,” James grumbles sullenly.

“He’s not going to come to this meeting, is he?”

James shakes his head. “This is only the second meeting after he joined us. Maybe he’ll come to the next one.”

“Maybe.” She finds a smile for him, and they stand up together, hand in hand. James’s optimism isn’t precisely contagious nor reassuring, but it is familiar, and one of the things that made her fall in love with him. A little optimism can do wonders for some situations.

Just a little, though. Too much can be dangerous, for more than one reason. But she’s there to make sure her husband doesn’t go over the top.

♠

** _Hogsmeade, Scotland. 15 November 1935._ **

Not another soul is wandering the edge of the little town on a Friday at dawn. No stores are open, and most people in Hogwarts are still asleep. That’s probably for the best, seeing as Albus is going to need as much discretion as he can get for the meeting he is about to attend, out in the open. It is foggy and cold, but he feels exposed nevertheless. Not only to the world, but to his own guilty conscience. He’s received a handful of invitations to meet with different people in the past two weeks, but this is the only one he’s answered affirmatively.

He refuses to put into words what that says about him. No one else will be using them any time soon, if he can help it. Nobody needs to know.

“You shouldn’t come here. Someone could recognize you,” he says as soon as he senses the man who summoned him standing at his back.

“I needed some fresh air.”

Albus turns and watches the terrorist come to a stop by his side, close enough that from an outsider’s point of view it is undeniable that they’re talking, and far enough that they can’t touch by coincidence. He purses his lips and arches one eyebrow. “You wanted to get away from your followers.”

Gellert smirks. “That, too.”

Albus hums.

“I could use some advice, too, old friend,” he admits, smiling lopsidedly. “I started composing a letter but stopped in the middle. Writing to you is such an old habit that I forget I can come and talk to you.”

Albus cannot help to smile at that. “I’d argue, but maybe coming in person is safer than letters.” It is also faster.

“See?” Gellert snaps his fingers. “That’s exactly what I thought. Even untraceable letters have their faults. But if I were to be seen…” he shrugs, “I can defend myself.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to say if someone sees _me_ talking to you?”

“You can always say you were trying to turn me in without a scandal that could get others injured or killed. You’d figure it out, darling, you always do.”

Albus always had a way to come up with the most ridiculous excuses and yet convince every soul of his sincerity. Gellert never had such natural talent. He mastered ways to swoon masses with the conviction of his words, and with a little care, he can find the right words to move individuals in the most convenient direction, but when it comes to convince others of his honesty under questionable circumstances, those who knew him would often assume the worst of him and were all too quick to shut down his attempts of an explanation. Sure, they were right in doing so, since what they assumed happened was often the truth, and Gellert _could _be very persuasive, but they rarely gave him the benefit of the doubt.

The only one who always waited to hear what he had to say was Albus. Then again, Albus always wanted to believe in good intentions, no matter the evidence, and he suspects that part of him hasn’t changed at all.

“Let’s not test our luck. You said you wanted some advice?”

Gellert nods. “I’m having a rally right before Christmas,” he says, looking straight ahead into the vague silhouettes of the faraway trees to avoid seeing Albus’s reaction.

“Where?”

“In London.”

In the last two weeks, he and some of his most trusted acolytes spent two to three hours every morning brainstorming different ways to diplomatically avoid any cooperation with Hitler, which is simply infuriating for a number of reasons. He’s not obliged to explain to others why he works the way he does — he is the head of their movement, and Hitler is a muggle who has no connection to it whatsoever. Still, he must admit it gave him a good excuse to be openly mad at Riddle, for only complicating things with no need and no apparent benefits, and he’s been exploiting it relentlessly.

There was something salvageable about their plans, though. Hitler and Riddle both seemed fascinated with the idea of introducing magic to muggles with horrifying images, which could be counterproductive, but the method was indeed an infallible one. There is nothing in muggle technology that could imitate the sudden appearance of pictures in the sky; a striking spectacle that would astonish dozens, if not hundreds of muggles. Not with the skull-hookah, of course; he’s never had any visions of wonders that easily would captivate muggles. But there are many ways to achieve a similar outcome, when one has magic and creativity. Gellert and his followers have plenty of both.

“Fawley is convinced you’re not going to come here,” mumbles Albus, and now Gellert does glance his way, finding him worrying at his lip. “Why don’t you do it somewhere else? You’ll be safer that way.”

He doesn’t fight the grin that stretches on his lips. “So you don’t care that I’ll be trying to get more people to join my cause? You’re more concerned about my safety?”

Albus is the one to avert his eyes then, and it is infuriating.

“I’ve always been concerned about your safety,” he says quietly.

Maybe he should just drop it, but Gellert’s never been good at restraining himself when it comes to Albus. He folds his arms on top of his chest and he _knows _he looks petulant and as arrogant as a child, but he doesn’t care, and he says: “Yes, I know that, but I’m asking whether that’s your _priority_.”

Albus’s lips tighten as an instinctual precaution to keep treacherous, incriminating words in, even as his mind is completely empty. He can’t find the right words. He hates that once more, what’s right or wrong depends entirely on his audience. He can’t, not for a second, ignore the fact that they’re out in the open and that if anyone were to listen into their conversation, he would be doomed. His reputation destroyed. Even while he knows that _no one _is around, _no one _is going to listen, and that taking the right measures to ensure the secrecy of their conversation would only take a moment, he is stuck in his place with paralyzing anxiety. He just can’t find the right words, for he has no idea what constitutes as ‘right’ anymore.

Besides, he is somewhat reluctant to believe that Gellert could need such reassurance, when everything Albus has ever done has been a testament to that.

Gellert’s safety has always been his priority, ever since they met.

“Before you met me you didn’t even know what Christmas was,” he says eventually.

“Your mum’s favourite holiday,” Gellert’s expression softens, and his smile turns tender. “No,” he shakes his head, “I had no idea.”

“Yes, you were always quite ignorant to muggle holidays.”

“I was.” He’d believed pointless to mind. Growing up, no one around him celebrated those. To this day, his one significant emotional connection to the muggle world is Albus’s own nostalgy for the few things his mother passed him on. Even that woman, a muggle-born, was not particularly fond of most muggle things, with counted exceptions. And the direction in which his plans are pulling him makes him grateful for them. “Anyway,” he clasps his hands behind his back and squares his shoulders, “the location and time of it is not what I have doubts about. They have a purpose, and I am certain of it. But…” he licks his lips, “some of my acolytes are a little concerned. They’re not sure it’ll have the… grand effect my return should have.”

“Why not?” Albus’s brow wrinkles. “Is it going to be too nice for their standards?”

Gellert grins. “Something like that.”

Albus listens, half wishing he wouldn’t but too enthralled to even consider interrupting, and quickly understands why Gellert’s followers may be concerned. He isn’t though. The strategy is brilliant, and it shouldn’t get anyone even injured, which is the best part. And he tells Gellert so, who in turn smiles at him in a way that makes Albus’s knees wobbly. It is the kind of smile he used to get lost in, but the precariousness of their meeting spot ever a concern in the back of his mind keeps him in his senses.

It is still early when he gets back to his room, so he’s startled when his brother’s face appears on his chimney — then again, he probably would have been startled by that sight at any given time. In the thirty-five years he’s worked there, two of which his brother was, in fact, a student, he’s only gotten seven calls from Aberforth. He’s counted, for they are so peculiar.

“Abe? Is something wrong?” he asks as he kneels on the rug.

“You tell me. You’ve got to come here. Now.”

His stomach turns. His brother is clearly upset, but he doesn’t look unwell. Albus is in trouble. Reason tells him there’s no way his brother discovered that he’s done the one thing that would piss him off the most, but that’s the one thing he can think of. He does his best to calm his racing heart as he leaves the castle, unsure whether he is grateful or unnerved by the restrictions —he’s never understood why human transportation on the staff’s personal fireplaces ought to be blocked—, since they give him some time to think things over. He’s not any calmer when he makes it to the living room of their childhood house in Godric’s Hollow, and his mind isn’t any clearer, but when he isn’t immediately hexed, he tells himself it can’t possibly be what he’s thinking.

He looks around and is stunned when he notices that his brother, who is leaning against the kitchen’s doorframe with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at him, isn’t alone.

“Elphias, it is so good to see you,” he says, smiling despite his anxiety. Certainly, the Auror is not there to arrest him, is he?

His old friend smiles openly, the way he used to in the times the secrets between them could be all laid out over the course of an afternoon. “It’s been a while, since we met like this, just the two of us. We’ve drifted apart, old friend.”

Albus nods. “We have. We both have been busy.”

“Yes, but…” he rubs his forehead, “you know that it is more than that.”

Aberforth snorts, catching Albus’s attention.

“Why would you call me so rudely this early on a Friday?”

“It is not early for me,” his brother says, “and if you want to complain, you should talk to him,” he points to Elphias with his chin. “He came about half an hour ago, while I was outside, feeding the goats. Said some pretty interesting stuff.” He unfolds his arms and takes a step towards Albus, icy eyes narrowed. “But I’ll yell at you about it some other time. Now it’s his turn. I’ve got things to do.”

Albus doesn’t say a thing as he watches him go, and then turns nervously to look at Elphias.

“You want to yell at me?” he asks.

Elphias’ grin widens for a moment, but when he shakes his head there’s melancholy in his eyes, and Albus knows exactly why he’s there.

“I’m happy that you’re with us this time, Albus,” he says. “But you can’t really be with us if you don’t come to the meetings.”

“Elphias…”

“Don’t tell me you don’t come because you’re busy. I know you, even now. I can see it in your eyes that you don’t want to get involved. But this is the right thing to do, Albus, really.”

“I know,” he lies, because in reality he doesn’t know a damn thing, but his friend doesn’t seem to notice, because he says:

“I know you do. I know your heart is in the right place, Albus.”

If Elphias knew where his heart is, he definitely wouldn’t be saying that.

But he doesn’t, so he walks up to Albus, clasps his shoulder, and squeezes fondly, expression weary yet tender. “You are a good man, Albus. But when good men stand aside and do nothing, bad things happen.”

That is a fact Albus has heard before, and he believes it dutifully. His comforting thought is one that wrecks him, also: he is not a good man. Because on top of everything else, he wants the people he likes to be okay.

Elphias is one of those people. Another is a monster.

He takes a deep breath and then offers him another, apologetic smile. “Why don’t we have some tea? I’m freezing.”

“Albus…”

“I’ll go to the next one. I promise you.”

He means it, even though his heart aches inside his chest.

♠

** _24 Maunsel St, Westminster, London, England. 24 December 1935._ **

“Hermione? Can you come here for a moment, please?” says her dad’s voice from downstairs, one entire octave too high.

Frowning, she rushes to the living room only to find her parents exchanging nervous glances between each other and the window. The beige curtains only slightly open. “What is it?” she asks, palms slightly sweaty.

“Is that…” her father starts, “magic?”

She doesn’t know what to say at first, too shocked and scared to voice what she fears and knows is happening. “He’s here,” she whispers, staring to the mystical lights in the sky out the window while desperately looking for alternatives for her parents.

“Who?”

She doesn’t answer, too focused as she is in the sight outside. Maybe the Muggle Liaison Office could pass off the sky spectacle as fireworks. In a swift decision, she turns on her heels and runs outside, yelling over her shoulder at her parents not to follow. She’s been keeping her wand with her at all times this holiday, because she can. She’s seventeen. But she hopes she won’t have to use it. She’s not even sure what she’s going to do once she gets there — doesn’t even know where she’s going, and she doesn’t try to apparate, but follows the lights on the sky instead. They’re beautiful, enthralling, and clearly made to attract all eyes. They evoke something like peace, like out of a fairy tale, and she knows that’s the idea. From what she’s read, Grindelwald always insisted he wasn’t asking for violence, just freedom. Peaceful cohabitation without the lies and secrets.

She knows that is only an act. It must be.

All the way down Horseferry Road she can hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She’s running as fast as she can while looking up every few seconds, and for the first few minutes she is mostly, gratefully alone. However, by the time she makes it to Victoria Street, she’s panting heavily and there are large groups of people standing still in every corner, whispering and pointing at the sky. An even larger crowd is moving down the street on their way to see what’s causing it, and the closer she gets, the quitter the whispers and the louder is the voice of the man in the centre of it all.

She knows he’s in his early fifties, and that he spent over half his life in a cell, but he’s beautiful. His face of elegant features and deep pleasing voice enhanced by the passion of his conviction, with words of peace and love and freedom and everyone around is hooked. Hermione herself cannot look away, even when she knows he’s wrong. He must be wrong. Muggles shouldn’t know about magic, it wouldn’t make the world better, for anyone.

Surely, it wouldn’t.

“We live in distress and isolation, keeping our children from performing what’s only natural to them just out of fear we might _scare _muggles,” is saying Grindelwald, standing by the steps of Westminster Abbey. “But people tend to be scared of what they don’t understand, and then instead of trying to learn, we attack, claiming it’s for our safety. Even wizards and witches fall into that mistake, when faced with other magical creatures such as vampires, giants or even those infected with lycanthropy — I’ve been locked away for thirty years, and I’m appalled to discover that not only their rights have not improved, but they have worsened. For how long are we going to be prosecuted and _caged _for _being_ what we _are_? How much longer are we going to be content with hiding?”

But they aren’t hiding. Are they? They’re just, they keep to their communities because it’s easier, and far more comfortable and…

“Thirty-six years ago, I organized an event in Paris that was pretty much like this, except it was quieter. We were hiding, after all, and it was only for the magical community. I guess that was my mistake. So now I include you, if you’re listening, and you cannot understand I word I just said,” he smiles, and the sight is blinding, warm and amused and Hermione wants to talk to him, “my name is Gellert Grindelwald, and I am a wizard. Thank you for coming today, I know it’s Christmas Eve and you’re all tired. I wish you all happy holidays, and I hope you enjoyed our… fireworks,” he winks, and he’s clearly having fun, but then he’s gone with a crack, and everyone in the audience is left either looking shocked out of their minds or beaming brightly.

Fireworks, he called them. The Muggle Liaison Office won’t have such a hard job, after all. He even wished them a merry Christmas. The coverup story could be fairly simple, if necessary at all.

She knows it was all for show, a manipulation act, that he just tried to make himself look approachable and _good_.

But it is with a sour taste in her mouth that she decides, it definitely worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Hermione lived in Hampstead, and I tried very hard to find a good spot for the rally there, but it needed to be a place with easy access for multitudes, and I wanted it to be a church. Some of the options I considered were St. Mary’s Church and St. John-at-Hampstead (and I planned an entire speech with the origin of the buildings and what they had meant for the magical community at the time), but I just couldn’t make the scene work.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This is only a third of the original chapter. You’ll understand there was a lot of editing to do.
> 
> Also, I love Seamus’s accent, but I declare myself incompetent to write it. Please, imagine he (and all the other characters with particular accents) still speaks the way he does, I just don’t know how to type it.

** _Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland. 2 January 1936._ **

After the break, Hogwarts receives students in different states of gloom, fear, and opaque relief. Everyone feels safe there, but they’re leaving their families behind, in a world whose air feels heavy with the threat of what everyone knows is coming and yet keeps defying their expectations. Not a single soul in the Wizarding World hasn’t heard about the speech Grindelwald gave in Westminster, and despite the Muggle Liaison Office’s best efforts, some muggles too can still remember most of it, even if they’re unaware of its true nature. If anything, the general feeling in the Great Hall at their first meal back is one of uncertainty and expectance.

Harry knows that the Minister had ordered to stop the search for Grindelwald some time before all that mess — he had known for a while, but after over a week of several newspapers blaming Fawley for what now everyone calls ‘The Christmas Eve Fireworks’, probably everyone in Europe does. He is also certain his father never intended to follow those orders. He doesn’t know how he feels with this new development. One thing was learning that a dangerous, old criminal has broken out of prison, and another very different is to have said criminal give a candid speech to both muggles and magical creatures not far from his house.

He wonders where Dumbledore was at the time, and if he’s worried or not. He was the one to stop him the first time, but Harry doesn’t think he looks precisely eager to catch him a second time, and that unsettles him.

Surely, it doesn’t mean the professor regrets it. It can’t mean that. Professor Dumbledore is an outstanding wizard, but not only because of his talents with magic. It’s his mind what’s fascinating, to Harry. How he always seems to be ten steps ahead of everyone else, and not only the students. He sees it on the way he interacts with everyone — other teachers, even Headmaster Dippet. It always feels like he’s on another level altogether. Could Grindelwald be the same sort of extraordinary? Dumbledore asked him to keep their conversation a secret, and Harry intends to do just that, but he can’t help to think about it from time to time.

He wonders how many other people Albus Dumbledore has considered friends. The professor always comes off as friendly, even approachable, but he’s as unreadable as they come. He’s the kind of person one feels comfortable enough to reveal all sorts of secrets to, but Harry doesn’t think the reverse situation happens often.

“Why do you think he came to London?” asks Neville, who is sitting across from him, with a worried face. “Do you really think he knew Fawley had given the order to stop looking for him? Wasn’t that classified information?”

For a moment, Harry wishes he would have waited to make that question until they were at least back in the common room. He can see how the people around them are trying to push their chairs even closer, and it’s a little claustrophobic to be right in the middle of it.

“Maybe word got around,” says Seamus, who’s sitting to Neville’s right, shrugging one shoulder but grimacing sourly, “or, well, he had someone on the inside.”

Lavender, about three sits to their left and hair dangling dangerously close to a small bowl with gravy, gasps. “You mean, like a spy?”

“Maybe it was just a coincidence,” says Dean, on Seamus’ right. “I mean, his plan is to expand to the whole world, isn’t it? It makes sense he would come to the UK eventually.”

“Yeah, but it’s his first big thing since he escaped. Shouldn’t it be symbolic? Does it mean anything?”

“Does it mean that he has many followers around?”

Most of them gasp.

“No way! Have you ever met anyone who sympathized with Grindelwald?”

“Didn’t Lavender defend him after he escaped?” 

“I did not do such a thing!”

“Yes, you did! Didn’t she, Hermione?”

“Uh?”

Hermione, on Harry’s right, seems startled for a moment. It is very unlike her, getting caught off guard on such a conversation, and Harry cannot shake off the feeling that something is wrong.

“Were you listening to what we were saying, Hermione?” asks Dean with a frown.

“Yeah, I…” she bites her bottom lip, “I’m sorry, you were wondering about the symbolism of what he did, and…”

“No, we weren’t,” mumbles Neville. “Not any—”

“It was. Very symbolic, I mean,” she licks her lips, “he didn’t, he didn’t just stand on the street, made fireworks and start talking, he…” she glances around nervously, “he was talking to muggles, outside a very important church, in a very important muggle holiday. I believe that was supposed to mean something.”

“Yeah, it’s called showmanship,” says Lavender, looking bored, “he wanted to make an impact on muggles without giving the Aurors an excuse to obliviate them. Everybody figured that out.”

Hermione stands up from her chair and glares at Lavender with unconcealed fury. “I meant that I think it could’ve meant something _more_.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” argues Hermione. “That man is a genius. Assuming that there wasn’t anything more to it just because one plausible reason has already been established is stupid.”

Lavender stands up too. “Haven’t you heard the muggle phrase, _sometimes a cigar is just a cigar_? Just let it go, Hermione. You’re coming off as crazy.”

“And you’re coming off like someone who doesn’t want others to think too much of it, or to look in too deep, for some reason. Why?”

“What are you talking about? I think you finally have lost your mind!”

“Girls, come on, there’s no need to fight…” says Harry, but he seems to be the only one willing to, and they ignore him. Around them, students are either pretending not to hear or unashamedly watching in amusement, and he doesn’t even dare to check if any teachers have noticed. Luckily, they’re closer to the doors, but the semester is only starting and the last thing they need is to lose points over such a petty thing. They’re dangerously close to third place already.

He tugs at Hermione’s sleeve, and she glares at him, but sits down again. Lavender follows eventually, blushing lightly and probably only then noticing all the eyes on her. Harry almost feels bad, but he’s finding it hard to feel any sympathy towards Lavender as of lately. Instead, he watches Hermione as subtly as he can, but she is decidedly not looking at anyone. There’s barely any food on her plate, but she’s cutting some tomatoes that had already been chopped into even smaller pieces.

Hermione can be unreadable too, just like Dumbledore. And Harry _knows _something else is bothering her, something outside from that conversation, probably even outside from Hogwarts.

Hermione lives in Westminster, Harry knows.

But he also can see that the way she exploded had a lot to do with the people around her. More specifically, across the table, two people to her right.

“Ron, _please_, do something,” demands Harry in an angry whisper, eyes drifting to discreetly point at Lavender, who is viciously stabbing at her food.

Ron, who is sitting at Harry’s left, stares hopelessly at the two girls and opens his mouth, but no sound leaves him.

Harry groans, beaten. That is a lost cause, he thinks, even though he’s certain that Ron has no feelings whatsoever for Lavender. He did like snogging, though, and that only complicated things further in the past, but they _broke up_. They did, even if Ron cannot remember exactly how he did it, high as he was with a potion after he fell from his broom in a vicious match against Ravenclaw.

Ron downs his entire glass of juice and turns to look at Hermione. Harry takes the hint and pushes his chair back as quietly as he possibly can, making it easier for his friends to communicate, but before Ron can get a word out, Hermione collects several tiny pieces of tomato in her fork, pushes them all into her mouth, and stands up brusquely, startling those around her.

“Good night,” she says to no one in particular, and then she’s gone.

Harry wants to smack Ron, but the look on his face is simply too tragic to stay angry at him, so he hands him another glass of juice instead.

“Thanks, mate. Now, please tell me you finished the readings for Transfiguration because I swear I did my best but my mum…”

Harry’s eyes widen, and across from them, both Dean and Seamus swear out loud.

“Merlin,” moans Harry, “I started it! I did!”

“I read like two pages, but then I fell asleep,” confesses Dean, looking horrified. “I completely forgot.”

“I think I read about a quarter of it,” says Ron.

“Then you read more than I did, mate,” says Seamus.

They agree to divide the work among the four of them in the common room, as far away from McGonagall as they can possibly go at the moment, and all other concerns —the dangers of dark wizards, muggles figuring out the truth, jealous and heartbroken girls— leave their minds. If they want to get any sleep, and not lose any points to their house early the next day, then they need to focus on the dull and complex reading for their N.E.W.T level class.

♠

** _London, England. 3 January 1936._ **

“She is okay, Sirius,” Remus says without raising his eyes from the manuscript with corrections from his editor that he’s revising. He’s sitting in his favourite chair in the study, and his husband has been pacing around the house for the last forty minutes or so. “It’s early and she already wrote to us to let us know she arrived safely. You can’t expect her to write to you every few hours. Let her go to class.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm. Didn’t you read the same news I read? Grindelwald is _here_.”

“Professor Dumbledore already had told us that, though.”

“He didn’t say we shouldn’t fear him.”

“But he implied it, didn’t he? That we shouldn’t worry about him going to fight Dumbledore in Hogwarts, and that he wasn’t looking for violence for the sake of violence.” He drops the manuscript on the small table at his right and crosses one leg over the other, giving Sirius his full attention. “You read the same speech I read, the guy clearly is trying to come off as good, innocent even.”

“He spent thirty years in prison. Who is going to buy that?”

Remus arches his eyebrows. “Don’t be so sure, Pads. The guy sounded very convincing.”

Sirius sighs and sits down on the armrest of the chair, leaning forward so he’s as close to Remus as he can get. “He knows how to use words, I’ll give him that.”

“And the dramatic effect?”

“Sure, that too. And I guess it was… well, it was rather disconcerting, the whole thing about wanting to _include _muggles and all. And the thing about Christmas? I thought he was a pure-blood bigot.” And Sirius knows a thing or two about those.

“It could all be an act, but…”

“But?”

“But we could simply be wrong about that, too.”

Sirius frowns. “Is it because he mentioned werewolves’ rights?”

Remus winces.

“Moony…”

He closes his eyes because he cannot stand to watch the sympathetic look he knows his husband is giving him. “That may have gotten to me,” he admits, smiling apologetically.

Sirius reaches out and squeezes his hand as he whispers: “It got to me too. But then I realized it was probably just a very tactful manipulation technique.”

“Maybe.” Remus thought so too, but it wasn’t enough to drive him away.

Remus doesn’t _want _to fall for it. He knows Grindelwald is probably lying just to get supporters and that behind all that apparent concern for everyone’s freedom and wellbeing there’s just hunger for power, but he’s been the first politician —if he can be called that— Remus has ever heard talk about werewolves as victims. He’s the first one ever to admit so blatantly that wizards attack magical creatures out of fear and ignorance and that that is _wrong_. He called it a mistake, and Remus cannot help but to desperately hope he genuinely wishes to revert the situation, to _fix _it. Even though that isn’t realistic, or very rational of him, to hope that a radical dark wizard that many called a madman could genuinely seize power and change the world for the better.

“When do you have to finish that?” asks Sirius, pointing at the manuscript. “My uncle Phineas invited us over for lunch.”

“Today?”

That could be a nice break from all the tension. Phineas Black the Second was the founder of what he and Sirius liked to call, ‘Those who shall be forgotten’ Club. Sirius’s cousin Andromeda did not approve of the name, even though they always included her when mentioning the proud members — which now reached the impressive amount of five people, if you didn’t include late great-uncle Eduardus, that is. Uncle Phineas isn’t technically Sirius’s uncle — he is a cousin of Sirius’s father. But then again, he is probably Sirius’s favourite relative.

Sirius nods his head and leans back with a sigh. Probably thinking something among the same lines, if his tiny smile is to be trusted. “Around one, at his place. That okay?” If Euphie wrote them a letter, it would reach them there all the same.

“Of course.”

They’re there almost ten minutes early, but uncle Phineas isn’t surprised. They’re always early, especially when something is odd. And there’s nothing not _odd _about the current times. Besides, even under normal circumstances Sirius is terrible at separations. Everyone who knows him at least a little can tell that the first day after their daughter went back to Hogwarts must be difficult. Thus, uncle Phineas handles the situation in the best way he knows, which works every time: he puts a ridiculous amount of delicious food in front of him and barely lets anyone talk about anything other than Quidditch and, occasionally, music and muggle movies, the latter a subject that, like many other hobbies of his, Remus suspects Sirius picked up from the older man.

“These are the best biscuits I’ve ever tasted,” says Phineas once they’ve moved to the living room for dessert, leaning forward to grab another from the table. “Though if your mother heard from where I got them, she’d probably have a heart attack. The guy who makes them is an American, and a muggle!”

Sirius explodes with laughter, and Remus considers that his reaction may be a little exaggerated, but with how tense and stressed he’s been lately, the sound is a relief, and the intensity understandable.

“They are delicious,” says Remus, in between bites of his third, “you must tell us where we can get them.”

“Yes, I’ll write down the address for you later, don’t you worry about that.” He flickers his wand and some papers shuffle on top of a nearby desk. He regards them for a moment, fond, amicable expression shifting into a more sombre one. “You boys are being careful, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asks awkwardly, shoulders going stiff.

Phineas sighs, and suddenly he looks a lot older than his fifty-four years. He rubs his forehead with the tip of his fingers, skin stretching ad wrinkling abnormally, and his mouth twists unpleasantly. “There are whispers on the street, you know. People are taking a stand, on whichever side they like best. People in our family…” his eyes seem to be begging them for something, although Remus cannot identify what that something may be. “I’ve met Fawley once or twice. He’s not… the best man for the job right now. I don’t want to think what our government will do to handle the Grindelwald situation, but what bothers me is not knowing what people, ordinary people, and those that are close to me, will do.”

“Uncle—”

“I was talking to your uncle Cygnus the other day — not my brother, your mother’s brother. His office is right down the street so we have lunch together sometimes, when he’s on a good mood. His wife, you remember her, don’t you? Druella Rosier?”

Sirius swallows, and his fingers sink on the leather of the sofa he’s sharing with Remus. He nods. “I’d like to forget her, really, but Andromeda looks exactly like her, so that’s difficult. I don’t know how she endures it, to be honest.”

Phineas gives him a sympathetic look. “Even in our family, some of us have at least a couple of fond memories of our parents, Sirius.”

“Maybe I’ll believe it someday. What about her, anyway?”

“She suspects your cousin Bella has joined Grindelwald’s lines. And not recently.”

“Are you really surprised?” Sirius asks cruelly, although his previous sharp intake of breath may suggest he also had been shocked with the news. “Bella buys into that pure-blood supremacy bullshit more than anyone.”

Phineas frowns. “You think that’s what Grindelwald is about?”

Sirius shrugs. “Isn’t he?”

“No,” Phineas shakes his head resolutely. “No, Grindelwald is… Grindelwald is a radical, yes, but he’s never advocated for pure-bloods. He accepts all wizards in his lines.” He grimaces. “It’s muggles he has a problem with.” He sighs and stretches his arms over the backrest of his chair. “But what troubles me is that Grindelwald hasn’t been around in many years. He’s only now returned. And if your cousin joined _before_… then maybe the people she’s following aren’t completely aligned with Grindelwald’s ideology.”

Remus narrows his eyes. “That’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it? That Grindelwald’s movement has been corrupted and that the people who will try to follow him now will get involved in something else?”

“I hadn’t even thought of it until I learned that your cousin might be involved, but now… yes. Yes, that really worries me. In the past, I met…” he licks his lips, “I met more than one righteous witch and wizard who supported him. I, myself, went to some of his rallies and agreed with many of his points. His numbers were huge because he spoke the truth, most of the time. And what he wanted, what he suggested was _good_. If his movement _has_ been corrupted, good people will pay a very high price.”

“You’ve always supported muggle rights,” says Sirius.

“Yes. And I always will. They’re not less than us. But I can admit that the Statute of International Secrecy can be… a nuisance, for us. And it is patronizing, don’t you think? To assume that keeping them in the dark about certain things will make everything easier for everybody…”

“I wouldn’t say that,” replies Remus crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward. “That measure was taken after real life experiences forced our hand as a community.”

“Real life experiences made a bunch of wizards organize and say, let’s make muggles ignore we exist, maybe that way they’ll stop murdering people. It didn’t really work, they still murder people for other reasons. And anyway, that may explain why _we _live in hiding but it doesn’t explain why we _forced_ vampires, werewolves, goblins and giants into hiding as well. But I didn’t call you here to convince you that Grindelwald is _right_, of all things!”

“Are you going to stay out of everything?”

“Yes.”

“And you think you can convince everyone you care about to stay out of it as well? Be realistic, uncle Phin, please.”

“Maybe not everyone, but at least those who matter the most.”

Remus had learned a long time ago that expressions of affection in the Black family were strictly regulated; as if they were somehow demeaning, any words of warmth were stroke out as unnecessary, embarrassing sentimentalism of no worth that was better left unsaid. That view of human relations obviously formed generations of emotionally constipated people with poor communication skills who never knew how to react when faced with honest, unguarded feelings. Even those that distanced themselves from the family were left with that lack of experience.

James had started a campaign not two months into their first year to try and teach Sirius otherwise, and most of the time, Remus agreed that he had succeeded into turning his husband into a communicative and sensitive man who never deemed love as a weakness and who refused to keep quiet about it.

Still, there were times when he would regress to that little boy who couldn’t understand that someone could care for him, much less that they would go as far as to say it out loud.

Phineas Black II had been disowned at an older age than Sirius, and it shows in how, even as he sits comfortably on a chair and eats biscuits, he is undeniably a Black. Sirius too has that aristocratic air, but it is more subtle, his accent weaker, his gestures brusquer. It isn’t the first time Phineas has expressed affection for Sirius, of course. But it may be the first time he’s looked as vulnerable while doing so, and understandably, Sirius doesn’t know what to respond.

When they leave, not long after, Sirius hesitates before wrapping his uncle in an impossibly tight hug. It is a ‘thank you’, an ‘I love you’, and an ‘I won’t stay away from everything’ all in one, and Remus steps a few feet away to give them some space, even if they don’t exchange any words.

“Sirius—” he speaks once they’re alone at home.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Moony, please.”

Remus hesitates with his mouth open and one arm hanging in the air between them.

Sirius takes his hand and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

“I just want to sleep.” It’s not even four in the afternoon, but it is Friday, and it wouldn't be the first time he naps on his day off. “I want to forget any of this happened, so I don’t overthink it all the way until Sunday.”

Remus grimaces. He’s been trying not to think of Sunday at all. He understands, so he keeps quiet — for the time being. He’s sure there are some heavy feelings to unpack, and maybe a younger version of himself would’ve loved to run away from that conversation, but he knows better now. And because he knows better now, when his husband lies down, he joins him and drapes over his back like a safety blanket, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

♠

** _Exeter, Devon, England. 5 January 1936._ **

Alastor watches the large group of people with both eyes and a frown, half convinced he’s done some sort of mistake. He knows he hasn’t. Since the group has become so big, they couldn’t keep meeting in random houses on a random day every week. They needed to start organizing better, even if that increased the risk of discovery. They haven’t been discovered so far, and that’s got to count for something. It is the first reunion of the year, the first reunion ever for about three dozen of members, and Albus Dumbledore is sitting to his right, attracting most eyes to himself without even trying, which is perfectly alright with Alastor. People who don’t spend much time with him have a tendency of staring at his magical eye, which gets annoying after a while, especially when important things are being discussed.

After the chaos of Christmas Eve, not unlike Grindelwald’s followers, Alastor assumes, their group also saw an important growth in their numbers. They were mostly Aurors who had been on the fence on whether the Minister had been irresponsible or not, and after Grindelwald had appeared and then vanished right under their nose, the general opinion leaned on their favour. James had been delighted in Headquarters listening to so many people complaining out loud about the incompetence of their leaders, but Alastor had warned him not to approach anyone yet and wait for them to take the first step instead of just inviting anyone who may not mean it. It isn’t strange for people to have strong opinions when shocking events are still fresh in their memories but lose all fire once those are forgotten.

In his opinion, short of two weeks since the event is still significantly early, but he was the one to clear all the new members. He personally trained most of them, and he trusts in both their abilities and their morals. And so, he organized this meeting in one of his own secret hideouts — an underground crypt underneath what appears to be an old muggle store that is always closed, not nearly isolated enough to stand out to any bystanders. It is a good place to meet, especially on Sundays, when most of them aren’t expected to be anywhere else. He almost dares to feel some optimism. They even have a name now, like some sort of secret society. It was Dumbledore’s idea, of course, to get a name. Alastor hadn’t thought it necessary; but Potter loved it, of course. In fact, he’d been so enamoured with the idea that they —Dumbledore and Alastor— decided Potter should be the one to pick the name. Now Alastor isn’t sure he regrets it, but, well, he doesn’t love it. They call themselves _Custodians_, for Merlin’s balls.

“Well, let’s begin,” says Potter with a smile.

He’s happy because there’s so many new faces, Alastor knows. What’s infuriating is that his knowledge is not due to his great observant skills, but to how ridiculously outgoing and expressive Potter is. That’s a weakness, he knows.

But it is also one of his greatest strengths.

“The general opinion is that Grindelwald was not in Britain before the 24th, and he definitely left at least the city as soon as he was done talking,” says Pettigrew.

Alastor had never met the man until they started meeting like this. He knows the man is a friend of Potter, and that he was a Gryffindor, but he cannot see it. He works for the ministry so he probably isn’t stupid, but he’s timid and jumpy, and Alastor cannot shake the feeling that the man doesn’t want to be there at all.

“Did we manage to infiltrate his lines?” asks one of the new recruits, an American Auror that transferred about four years ago, and Alastor has had the pleasure of working with on more than one occasion. She knows to ask the right questions, and not to, when necessary.

Potter nods and answers: “We got five people on the inside, normally.”

“But they haven’t been able to get anywhere near him. No one will tell where he’s staying, nor where and when his next appearance will be. They should hear about it within time to get there, though, so at least there’s that.”

“It’s really creepy though,” says Tonks, her hair darkening slightly. “They’ve been handed several things to read — it worries me that they’re trying to brainwash them.”

“You’re worried they’re being brainwashed… with literature?” asks Lupin.

“Don’t give her that look. It is a valid concern,” says Potter weakly.

Alastor agrees, but he doesn’t say it, he just glares. He’s not sure those around him understand what his glare means, though. Tonks gives him an uncertain smile, and both Potter and Lupin avoid his eye.

But Dumbledore doesn’t say anything either, so he supposes that’s alright. How could anyone doubt that getting brainwashed by the enemy is one of the biggest dangers of working undercover? Grindelwald can recruit hundreds from saying just a few words in the middle of the day out on some plaza; if one exposure to him isn’t enough, then being constantly surrounded by those ideas could certainly finish the job. Sure, it also means more time to analyse the discourses they’re being fed and make a better opinion, but the danger is there nevertheless.

“Fine. For their safety, we all agreed to keep their identities a secret from even most of us. Not Potter, not I, and not even Dumbledore know who all five spies are. They’re our best shot to put up a real fight. Because we will have to fight at some point, and I hope you know that. If you didn’t, now is the time to leave. No one will judge you.”

His magical eye inspects them all, and it manages to not stay too long on Pettigrew, who doesn’t look happy, but he’s decidedly not going to leave. Alastor doesn’t know where his loyalty lies, but at least it seems to belong to their group. Out of the new recruits, there are two or three who seem a little nervous, but ultimately, they’re all firmly staying.

They’re with him. They’re his soldiers. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and nods. They can continue. He would give his life for every single one of them.

♠

** _Paris, France. 18 January 1936._ **

The aftermath of his first rally in thirty years is delightful, although Gellert doesn’t get the chance to watch in close proximity. He still needs to stay hidden, so he had left as soon as his speech was over. He hasn’t abandoned his flat in over three weeks, aware only by words of third parties that thrice as many Aurors as before are looking for him. But at least those within his followers who had been sceptic about his plan realized that it was, in fact, better than all the other suggested ideas. Vinda and Carrow identified about forty wizards and witches interested in joining them, and despite the Muggle Liaison Office’s best efforts, word got around and there are still muggles out there commenting the strange spectacle on Westminster Abbey on Christmas Eve. But he knows that won’t last. Masses are volatile, and their attention span isn’t that long. He needs to go out there again, and the bar will be higher.

Once he’s done making his fourth sudoku of the morning, he rereads Albus’s last letter as has become his habit. They don’t come as often as he would like, for the weather and the circumstances make everything harder. Regardless, he knows he could get a letter every hour and it still wouldn’t be enough. He’ll never get enough of Albus’s words.

Although there are some he’d rather skip, yet his eyes betray him and he reads them time and time again anyway, noticing each time the familiar heat of jealousy raise in his thorax. It’s ridiculous and uncalled for, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Just like there was nothing he could say about it when he wrote his response, about two days ago. He had a comment or answer for almost every other thing, but when it comes to family and friends, his experience is highly limited, and thus when Albus wrote:

‘_Abe is being extra rude as of lately, and an old friend from Hogwarts has been visiting me way too often. It saddens me to admit it, for his friendship has been very important to me, but his presence is hardly as comforting as it used to be, and that’s unsettling._’

He cannot say he understands. The one person whose presence was ever comforting to Gellert was Albus, and that hasn’t changed so far. Besides, what he really wanted to ask was _why _said friend has been visiting so often. He didn’t, in the end. He’d decided not to after three drafts in which he just couldn’t find the right phrasing for it as not to sound like a possessive, controlling, and immature crazy person, especially since _they’re not together_, and he cannot pester Albus with some misplaced jealousy.

He just can’t. No matter how badly he wants to.

His hand still tingles whenever he remembers that night in the cemetery — and he remembers it often. It’s a bittersweet thing, that memory. Confusing, for he cannot decide what it symbolizes. No matter what, it gives him hope, even though they’ve barely seen each other since, and they haven’t held hands again. Hope for what, he doesn’t dare to rationalize, but that’s what he calls the funny feeling in his gut.

He knows Albus is keeping something important from him. Something likely connected to those who chase him. It would be stupid of them not to ask for Albus’s help. But he isn’t going to ask about that either.

Not yet, anyway.

Because he trusts Albus. He trusts him to find a way to let Gellert know. He trusts himself to keep Albus on his side this time.

There is a knock on the door, and he puts the letter away before answering: “Yes?”

It is Vinda, and by now she knows that if she isn’t immediately dismissed, she can just enter, so she does.

“We need to make another move soon,” she says. She’s on edge, and for some reason, Gellert believes whatever is bothering her has absolutely no connection to their immediate conversation.

He swallows and tries to focus, hoping she’ll do the same.

“Yes,” he nods. “I know. More to the East, too. I’d rather leave France unbothered for a while, as to not bring attention here. I like this little apartment.” It isn’t little. His cell was little. His flat is the perfect size; slightly smaller than what he’d been used to growing up in an aristocratic home, but big enough that it looks at least adequate, without becoming overwhelming after a lifetime locked in a shoebox.

“Yes, I like it too,” she admits. She doesn’t stand still, and when she closes her mouth, he thinks he can hear her teeth clash painfully. “Your supporters in Hungary are more than eager to have you there. Maybe we should check it out.”

He hums as he sits down on his favourite divan and watches her with concealed amusement. “Yes, that could work.”

She doesn’t sit down. She mumbles to herself something that sounds like ‘_Hungary, Hungary should work_,’ and turns to one of the bookshelves as if expecting to find anything useful on a pile she should know only contains Asian history books in languages she doesn’t speak and most certainly cannot read.

He sighs and decides that there are worse things than one of his most loyal acolytes thinking he cares about them, so he says: “You know it irritates me when you’re fuming in silence. What is it?”

Vinda folds her arms on top of her chest defensively. “It’s nothing, my Lord, really.”

“Vinda.”

Her mind is impressively blank to him, but the way her bottom lip trembles tells him she will give in if he keeps pushing. So he stands up and goes to the window, and doesn’t try to read her thoughts again. He watches a young boy running ahead of his mother who almost slip on the sidewalk, and not far from him a couple seems to be having an argument. The woman pushes the man, and he takes several steps back. For some reason, the sight upsets him.

When Vinda speaks, he turns around and gives her his undivided attention.

“You know I have distant relatives in England.”

He had no idea, actually. He figures he probably _had _known at some point.

So he nods.

“I think of those who are around my age as cousins. I don’t think I could say what they really are, and I’m not that close to any of them, but, well, I know them. We keep in touch, now and then.”

“Okay,” he mutters, for lack of a better thing to say. He has a tendency of blocking the thought of any of his acolytes having families or people who care about them, and he’s suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

“I’ve known for a while that a… niece of mine has joined our lines. I didn’t think she hadn’t told my cousin — her mother. Who knows I follow you, by the way.”

Gellert wonders what terrible sin he is paying for, in that precise moment, listening to the family drama of a person he genuinely respects.

“I know you probably have no idea what to do with this information,” she gives him an amused smile, “but you wanted to know why I was upset. And that would be an argument with my niece. That’s all.”

“You could’ve said _that_.”

She laughs, and coming from her, he doesn’t care. He even joins her for a short while as he serves two glasses of firewhisky with a lazy wave of his hand, and the look they share before they take the first sip warms him more effectively than the alcohol.

“Well, lucky for you the one thing I know about families is how to deal with upsetting relatives.”

“Is that so?” She seems frankly surprised by that, which isn’t at all weird considering that in the thirty-six years they’ve known each other he’s never mentioned anything of the sort.

He hums around a mouthful of firewhisky. “And the first step is, always, take a deep breath and forget everything they said. They’re probably wrong. Worst case scenario, they aren’t, but there will be time to deal with it once you’re no longer angry.”

“I’ll drink to that, my Lord.”

“You don’t have to call me that all the time, you know.”

She bites her bottom lip and places her glass on a nearby shelf. “I’ve called you that since we were seventeen.”

In the bar they met, that September so many years ago, when Nagel had asked him his name, after he was done giving a rather passionate speech criticizing the restrictive impositions of the Wizarding World and the dangers of doing nothing, he had hesitated. He had only recently turned seventeen, was in a foreign land with no intention of contacting his family anytime soon, and he was surrounded by strangers who all looked older than him. And so, he had put on his most petulant mask and said they could call him ‘_Mon Seigneur_ _Grindelwald’_, and those whose native language was not French —the majority of the group that stayed with him that night, in fact— started calling him ‘Lord’ for pure convenience, and somehow it stuck. It only had bothered him at the beginning, reminding him vaguely of his father, who was a _Herzog_, but he had figured it was better than being called ‘Gellert’ with an ugly accent or some belittling derivative.

“I was kind of an idiotic seventeen-year-old, wasn’t I?”

She giggles and shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. You were…” she narrows her eyes and seems to stare into some memory from the past, a delighted smile painted on her face, “you were fascinating. You still are, of course, but now you fit the role better. Back then, it was perplexing. You were my age, and you were, well, you were on another level entirely. On a league of your own. With your radical ideas, your fatidic visions, and your immense power. You still have all that. You’re just as enthralling.”

“You flatter me.”

“I mean it. You are special…” she grimaces, “now I don’t know what to call you.”

“Gellert is fine.”

“You must be playing with me.”

“I swear I’m not.”

He doesn’t know why, but it suddenly turns very important that he hears it. There, in that room which only had seen the two of them and a handful of others —simply Carrow, Nagel, Kraft and MacDuff once or twice—, he suddenly remembers Albus’s letter and he notices something important: whereas none of them will ever come close to the bright presence that is the Englishman, they are still, in a way, _comforting_. They are loyal and intelligent, and they’ve been following him for over three decades. He knows there are others out there who are still with him, but they don’t have a face and they’ll never mean the same thing. They’ll never remind him of Paris, from before he stole the Elder Wand. That night had been magical in more than one way. It was the night he realized he would go on even without Albus by his side. It was the night he realized there were many out there who believed in the same things he did.

And it was the night he met people he would grow to consider friends, albeit many years later.

“Gellert,” she says, with a nervous smile but a perfect intonation.

He grins. “Yes?”

She squares her shoulders. “Hungary. We must start preparing it. Do you have a particular date in mind again?”

He downs what is left of his firewhisky and goes back to sit on his divan. “Now that you mention it, there’s this muggle tradition in February that could be interesting…”

She arches her eyebrows. “Valentine’s day?”

“You know it?”

“Muggle-borns popularized it in Beauxbatons,” she explains. “How did _you_ learn about it?”

He rests his elbow on the backrest and turns to gaze outside. “That’s a secret.”

She looks curious, but he figures there has been enough surprises, changes and revelations for one afternoon, and doesn’t push the issue. Not that it would’ve mattered if she had. Gellert may dare to consider her something close to a friend — and the word feels strange even to think about. He’s never had _friends _before. He had followers in school, he had admirers and relatives, he had Albus, and then he had acolytes. He never had _friends_. But just because he may have them does not mean he’ll start revealing his secrets.

Besides, some traditions are best kept that way. It makes them even more special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent so long, SO long, restructuring the Black family tree to include everyone…! Basically, Sirius’s parents and grandparents are (almost) the same, but his great-grandfather is Arcturus I, uncle of Phineas Nigellus, who canonically is Sirius’s great-great-grandfather. It’s confusing, I know, but it fits! And so, his relation to Draco and Tonks are the same as in canon. Thank God for MyHeritage Family Tree Builder though!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think some of my favourite parts of this story are in this chapter--and just so you know, this is the second third of what was originally chapter six. My outline was not prepared for all the stuff I had to put in between!

** _Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland. 14 February 1936._ **

“You look tired,” says Minerva without actually raising her gaze from her plate.

It is the first thing he’s told as he sits down to eat breakfast, which at seven thirty in the morning on a Friday is a little mean, according to Albus.

He shrugs. “It’s been a long week.” A long year, really, but he knows that if he were to speak those words, Minerva would only criticize his dramatism. It hasn’t been two months yet, she would argue. And Albus would tiredly say, _exactly_.

“Do you even know what day it is?” she asks, absentmindedly handing Horace a napkin.

Albus smirks, enjoying the sight of his embarrassed colleague with milk in the moustache he only recently started growing. “Oh, I may be tired, but I am a teacher just like you, my dear. I can’t exactly get the dates wrong.” He raises his glass for Minerva to clash hers against it. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

She hums. “You don’t have a date?”

“Do you?” He sighs, realizing that no one around them is paying attention to their conversation which even under normal circumstances would be weird. On such a day? It’s simply impossible. It is obvious that she did something. He places an elbow on the table and says: “Just ask what you want to ask, Minnie. Really.”

“We’re going to meet at Potter’s place this afternoon, just a few of us. Will you come?”

He purposefully does not grimace at the idea, even though he wants to. Ever since Elphias talked to him, he hasn’t missed a single meeting. Still, Minerva asks him before every time. He tries to give her a pacifying smile, but she’s ruthless and it does little to nothing. So he says: “I guess I should.”

“I don’t understand you, Albus. You were the one that stopped him. Why are you so reluctant to do it a second time?”

“I am not reluctant!”

She arches her eyebrows.

Minerva is wrong. He is not reluctant. If Gellert starts killing people again, he _will _stop him. But he can’t be certain that he will. He’s not twenty anymore, and Albus still believes most of what he says is true. They just must figure out a way to change the world without the mass murder — Gellert must. Gellert and his followers. And Albus will stay far away from them in the meantime.

Far, far away, meeting with people who are trying to bring him down.

Albus feels sick, and the smell of his half-eaten breakfast doesn’t help.

He feels like he’s playing both sides, except Gellert knows there’s something going on, because he always knows, and the others haven’t got the least idea. Every week they save a seat for him up front as if he were one of the leaders of the group, and brave, righteous witches and wizards stare at him with admiration and genuine trust that he hasn’t earned and definitely does not deserve. Whenever he stands next to extraordinary, selfless heroes such as Alastor Moody, Albus doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wishes nothing more than to be back in Hogwarts, where the things he says and does are valuable and useful and authentic. But even there he feels watched all the time now, by Minerva who grows more and more judgemental each day, as if she had expected him to turn into a different person when faced with a threat and is now disappointed. He used to think that having to constantly live up to people’s expectations of him was exhausting but failing to do so is harsher than he could have ever imagined. He tries to push it to the back of his mind, but it is difficult, for he is not used to it, and every meal is starting to feel like a torment. Luckily, once they are over, he can lock himself in his quarters or in his classroom, where he can pretend he’s still in control of things. And when that fails, he grabs quill and paper, and he writes to Gellert.

That, at least, is the one thing that’s still the same as it was the year before.

♠

** _46 Whymark Ave, Noel Park, London, England._ **

Lily hears muffled voices coming from the studio, but she refuses to check it out, and focuses on the parchments she’s arranging instead, distractedly glancing at the mirror once or twice, still unsure with her choice of attire. When she thought of it the night before she had imagined the yellow of the blouse would complement the brown of her skirt and robes, but the result isn’t as flattering. Still, she looks professional, and that’s what matters the most. She’s meeting with the board of St. Mungo’s and a delegate from the ministry to go over some adjustments in the budget of her department — which was never a lot to begin with. Authorities, businessmen and even healers seem to be under the impression that there isn’t a need for the development of new potions, as if there weren’t several diseases, conditions and other afflictions that are yet to get a cure, or even something to appease their symptoms. It is infuriating, but anger won’t get any results. She needs to be calm, and focused. Resolute. And more importantly, she needs to be prepared for the worst, but aim —and give her all— for the best.

She finishes packing everything she’ll need and is on her way to the bathroom for the last touch —a perfume she made by accident when working on a potion to help with age-caused memory loss— when her husband bursts into the room, looking agitated, wearing one shoe and holding the other in his hand.

“What happened?” asks Lily, heart sinking as she watches him retrieve a jacket from the closet.

“We got a message from Edgar,” explains James, leaning against a wall to put on his other shoe. “Grindelwald is about to give another speech, in Hungary.”

“And you’re going?” she arches her eyebrows and takes a step towards him.

“Well, I—” he stops, glaring frustratedly at her, as if he couldn’t understand why she isn’t moving to go with him. “Yes. Yes, I’m going. What else am I supposed to do?”

“James, we have to be smart.” She pushes her hair behind one ear among the terrifying possibilities that flood her mind. “If we try to go and stop him there, it’s going to be obvious that someone from the inside is giving us information. Don’t you think it could be counterproductive? What are we really going to accomplish? The place is going to be full of his supporters. There isn’t nearly enough of us with this short notice.” Not on a Friday so early, when everyone is either on their way to work, or already there, and unable to get away. “I know you want to feel like you’re doing something, but this isn’t it. This is just…”

“Foolishness,” he says. He then throws his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, and sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to make sure no one else goes.”

Lily nods. “Yes, you do that.” She walks up to him and rests her hands on his chest. When he looks at her, she smiles. She knows he’s feeling useless, because she is feeling that too. But she’s a little relieved as well, knowing that he won’t be getting killed later that day somewhere in Hungary. She still has to stand in her tiptoes to kiss him, and it never fails to give her butterflies. “Then, you go to work.”

He hums over her lips and strokes her face with his thumb. “Yeah, you too. Good luck with the board.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re going to need it more. They’re going to be dealing with you.”

She folds her arms on top of her chest. “Who are you rooting for, Potter?”

He smirks and drops a kiss on her cheek. “You. I’m always on your side, Lil.”

“I know.” She smiles. That is one of the few things she is certain of, nowadays. “Happy Valentine’s day, James.”

♠

** _Lipótváros, Budapest, Hungary._ **

With Vinda on his right and Nagel on his left, Gellert exits St. Stephen’s Basilica after the 08:00 mass and makes his way to Liberty Square at a slow peace, watching the people around him and wondering if any of them will recognize him in few minutes. He would’ve liked talking inside, and the building certainly had the capacity for one of his old, early rallies, but it would’ve been tougher to attract clueless bystanders and it would’ve made it easier for authorities to detain him. The square is a better choice, by far, and with the sun up, it may be a little warmer than inside the church. Not that it matters; he rarely feels cold when he’s talking in front of a crowd. And there will be a considerable crowd, he suspects, judging by the multitude that’s already gathered before he even makes it there. He’s amused to notice more than one couple here and there, and he wonders if one of his rallies could count as a memorable date.

His hands tingle as he thinks that, if there had been someone else doing what he’s doing in 1899, then he and Albus definitely would’ve been there, and it would’ve been as romantic as dinner by candlelight.

He tries not to think of it often, but of course he fails, and hardly a week goes by in which he doesn’t theorize on all the things they could’ve done — not as two leaders of a radical political movement, but as two people that loved each other, if they’d had more time. He theorizes about late night conversations, trips and parties, and just meals shared together in different settings and with different intonations. There were very little things about their days in Godric’s Hollow that could ever be considered romantic, but there were other, more recent things, that to an ignorant watcher would definitely appear so. And in his mind, he likes to remember them and pretend that they are. In particular, his memories from every Valentine’s day in almost three decades are some of his most valuable treasures.

There had been many restrictions in the early years of his sentence on what could be sent to Gellert in Nurmengard. Many of his followers, however, somehow had managed by 1908 to get him chocolates — or half of them anyway. The other half was always consumed by the guards, who were required to ‘test’ them and make sure no one was, in fact, trying to poison him or help him escape. And so, from those that would reach him, he would then send a sample of each box to Albus. And Albus, in turn, would send Gellert more books.

But not any book. Muggle, romance novels. Ridiculous and scandalous and just entertaining enough for a man who had way too much empty time to fill. If that had been everything, Gellert probably would have still looked up to the holiday in the way he did, for it was a break in the painful imposed monotony of his life. But there was another thing Albus did that made Gellert tremble with anticipation.

And those were the fireworks outside his window.

Gellert still doesn’t know how Albus did it. He doesn’t know if the guards ever noticed, or if they were tricked, or simply couldn’t see it from where they were, but that isn’t important, and it never was. All he cared about back then were the beautiful lights outside his window, and the knowledge that Albus was somewhere close, thinking of him in a holiday that celebrated love, and all its expressions.

He cannot make fireworks outside of Albus’s window today, but he thinks of him as he conjures the blue flames that form a giant bird with the distinctive crown on top of its head. He has to remind himself that the Turul resembles more of a falcon than a phoenix, but he cannot help to put a little bit of Fawkes in the curve of its beak, which doesn’t affect the way his captive audience —wizards and muggles, Aurors and civilians— view the scene. It isn’t long before he has the unwavering attention of a couple of hundreds, and as he fills their minds with questions about equality and justice and fear, he thinks of Albus and he understands why someone like him would enjoy teaching so much. It is delightful to watch a group of people come to realize what he already knows. He only wishes Albus was there. And because he always gets a little carried away when he’s motivated, he cannot stop himself from saying, at the end:

“And today, in this beautiful holiday, please take the time to tell the people that you love what they mean to you. Take the time to celebrate them and show how grateful you are to have them in your life. And do not wait for next year to do it again. Do it every moment that you can, because you never know when you’ll stop having the chance to do so.”

He then has the bird of flames descend upon him and he vanishes, wishing he could stay around just a little longer to see how his words were received, but wishing, on top of everything else, that he could once again tell Albus, open and unapologetically, how much he still loves him.

♠

** _Common room, Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle. 15 February 1936._ **

While everyone gets ready to leave for Hogsmeade after breakfast, Hermione sits by the chimney and rereads the papers as if to memorize every word.

Grindelwald’s second public apparition was perhaps even more scandalous than the first one, or so the media tries to say. In truth, his words were nothing more than conciliatory.

Hermione thinks the man is a living contradiction, but no matter how hard she looks, she cannot find anything in his words that could be open to a bigoted interpretation. Still, she is certain that there are many things the reporters missed. The description of the fire show, for example, is mediocre, but a quick search in some of the muggle history books she brought with her the year before reveals what the ‘hawk-like’ figure might have been. It may sound like a stretch, but she knows the man is brilliant and shouldn’t be underestimated. Could it really be a coincidence that the very first figure he made in the sky was the mythological bird associated to the country and the family of a king, not far from a church that carries said king’s name? She doesn’t know much about St. Stephen’s Basilica, but she knows it is a Catholic church, and again, it is in a country’s capital. The fact that he talked in a place called ‘Liberty Square’ only adds up to his theme. That could be a pattern, but it isn’t nearly enough to deduce where the next one is going to be. And she really wants to be there for the next one.

She folds the newspaper and puts it away when she hears footsteps and opens a book. They’re just a couple of younger students on their way out, and as soon as they’re gone, she is certain that she’s the only one currently in the tower. She releases a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding and allows her mind to reach into a corner she’d stayed away from so far, closing her eyes and hugging her knees. She doesn’t know why, but she’s always felt more comfortable in that couch than in the room she shares with the other girls. Maybe it’s because her real friends cannot join her there, so it never feels as warm.

She watches the flames dancing and feels the magic in the air. The magic that is just everywhere in the castle. It’s beautiful and enthralling and she misses it each time she leaves. She missed it before she even knew it existed.

“Hermione?” mutters Ron, standing by the door as if he’s not sure he’s welcome. She hadn’t noticed him getting in — she had imagined he and Harry had already left. She told them after breakfast that she had things to do and wouldn’t be going.

She presses her palms against her eyes and scoots over to the right, making space for him. “Yeah? What is it? Come here.”

He goes slowly, but eventually he sits by her side. “What’s wrong?” he asks then.

“Nothing, I was just,” she licks her lips, “thinking. It’s stupid, really.”

“I doubt it. But even if it was,” he scratches the back of his head, “I’d still like to hear it.”

“I was just remembering.”

“Remembering?”

She nods. “Stuff from the time before I knew I was a witch. I mean, I knew I was different, and my parents did, too, but it wasn’t… none of us really could have ever imagined something like this. And sometimes I think that’s unfair.” She snorts and shakes her head, as if amused and upset by her own thoughts. “But that’s stupid.”

“How exactly is it stupid? Forgive me, but I don’t understand.”

“Ron, I can do _magic_. And just because we spent a few years not knowing…” she shakes her head.

Ron grabs her hand in his and squeezes. “You didn’t just spend a few years in ignorance. It is more than that, being able to do something and not knowing why. Not knowing that there were others, that there was nothing wrong about it. And even if it _was_ just a mere inconvenience, it still isn’t fair that to so many others that was never an issue. To those like me, it was never an issue. I guess that in a way, you were robbed of that knowledge for…” he frowns, “oh, shit.”

She chuckles, but it’s a watery sound and there are still tears gathering in her eyes as she nods her head at him. “See?” She uses her free hand to dry her face and tries to smile at him. “That’s why charismatic leaders are dangerous. They’re great manipulators, and know how to use people’s experiences, their weaknesses, to their advantage. They know how to make themselves look like an ally and turn the right authorities into enemies.”

“That’s fucked up. He’s really good at it. Fucking Grindelwald, I feel like I used the same words from this morning’s article.”

She hums her affirmation. “I’m sorry, did you want something?”

“Oh, well…” he scratches the back of his head. “Yesterday was Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh,” she blushes.

“Yeah, so,” he swallows and hunches slightly, “I was wondering, I know you said you had things to do, but… maybe you could try to find some time to come to Hogsmeade with me, and do something fun?”

She smiles, and Ron thinks she’s never looked more beautiful.

She nods. “I’d like that. Just the two of us, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

There’s happiness in her eyes, and Ron doesn’t know what to do with himself. He could stare at her for hours. The only reason he doesn’t is because she moves first.

“I’ll just go get a jacket.”

“Right!”

♠

** _Hogsmeade, Highlands, Scotland._ **

In his first couple of years as a teacher, Albus used to volunteer to take the students to Hogsmeade as often as he could. He no longer understands why he found it so exciting, and he hasn’t been a volunteer in years, but he doesn’t complain when it is his rightfully his turn. He just wishes the other teacher were someone other than Minerva — someone who didn’t look as murderous as she did after she read the article about Grindelwald during breakfast. Anyone else would have been a more pleasant company, and he says that as a genuine friend of the witch. Even Horace, who just had looked sick.

Most of the staff members, and the students, looked sick when they read the article, really. Not because of Gellert’s speech, he presumes, but simply because of the whole situation, him appearing again, uncaught and convincing more people to pass to his side, filled everyone with dread. Like a war was coming, but it hadn’t even started yet and they were already losing.

It probably didn’t help Minerva’s mood that the day before, one of the spies whose identity had been kept from Albus had told them about the rally, but they had decided not to act since they would likely only blow their cover and not achieve anything good. Which, of course, had been a relief for Albus, but not so much for Minerva, who clearly missed seeing some action.

More and more, Albus wants to ask her why she changed careers. He knows she’s a wonderful teacher, but he wonders if she really wouldn’t be happier in the field, as a Law Enforcer. He imagines she would be wonderful there as well. Still, that day is definitely not the one to have that conversation, and so even as they enter the Three Broomsticks together, he is more than happy to get separate tables.

Well, he is until he’s stopped. Then, he’s hoping she’ll come back, though he knows she won’t.

“Hello, Elphias,” he says trying to sound pleased even as he isn’t.

“Hi.”

“I don’t suppose you’re here because you like the food.”

“Maybe I like the company.” He sends a quick glance at Minerva, who is standing by the bar talking to Rosmerta.

“Maybe,” says Albus, with an amused smile. “Let’s find a table, shall we?”

They find one in the furthest corner and Albus sits with his back to the door. He’s met enough Aurors to know that is a thing they’d never do. Strategically it may not be very wise. But he doesn’t care. He’s not in danger of being startled there, in his territory. Besides, he wants to focus on Elphias’ face.

“Don’t be mad at me, Al,” Elphias says right away.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Yes, you are. I know you are. You’ve been mad at me since November.”

“That’s not…!”

“I’m not criticizing you. You’ve never liked being called out, I know that,” he grins playfully. There’s nostalgy in the air but for once it is not oppressive. “I’m not going to apologize because I don’t regret doing what I did. But I understand why you may be upset with me. Can we move on now, though?”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

“Why would I be? You’ve kept your word.”

“Yes, but…” But he’s been a lousy friend, an unhelpful, uncooperative team member, and just awful company, he is sure.

His friend stares at him for a moment, and all Albus can do is will himself into staying still. Elphias used to be so easy to read, back in their first couple of years at Hogwarts, but he’d grown better and better at keeping his thoughts and intentions hidden from him as they grew closer through the years.

It is a little upsetting, for he knows that the opposite should have happened, if they were the good friends that they say they are. His inquisitive eyes shouldn’t make him squirm.

“You’ve got no idea, do you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Albus admits, bewildered.

Elphias shakes his head, but his expression is fond. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s have a drink, shall we? And talk about something else. Tell me about your students. Are there many troublemakers? Has anyone accused you of favouritism lately?”

The morning passes by and the conversation not once loses its light. It’s as easy as breathing, laughing with Elphias, and when he talks about his job he hardly needs to be careful — he watches his words mostly out of habit; that is the one part of his life where he genuinely has nothing to hide. He has a good time, but when Elphias has to leave around three in the afternoon, Albus cannot help to feel relieved. He hugs him tightly and makes an empty suggestion of doing that again, and he can see in Elphias’ eyes that he knows they won’t be doing it any time soon, but when he disapparates, he’s still wearing his fond smile and Albus’s chest aches. He misses him already, but what he misses the most is being able to relax in his company, be honest and a good friend. He doesn’t like performing badly, and when it comes to his performance as a friend, he knows it is less than satisfactory.

He is done meeting with old friends for a lifetime, really. So of course, as he exits Honeydukes with his pockets full two hours later, another face from those days is waiting for him.

Then again, Phineas Black II could hardly be included in the same category as Elphias. He’s an old acquaintance, maybe, but not an old friend. He doesn’t need to worry about letting him down. He doesn’t need to worry about Phineas reading him too easily or stubbornly refusing to believe him. They were just classmates who got along once, and his smile is a nice reminder of those easy days.

They talk about a muggle artist as they walk, as if they hadn’t been completely out of touch for years, and when they pass by Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, Phineas suggests they go in, and Albus accepts. It is filled with couples, of course, but he’s confident that right after Valentine’s Day, they won’t need to worry about anyone paying any attention to them. It is, however, just a tiny bit unsettling having Madam Puddifoot beaming at him, winking and insisting on slipping extra biscuits in their order, but Phineas ignores her expertly and Albus tries to do the same. It gets easier with time, as their conversation moves from innocuous topics to some of the most ridiculous and outrageous memories they share from their years at Hogwarts. Phineas has always been pleasant company, and Albus is completely relaxed by the time he says:

“Well, back then you supported Grindelwald, didn’t you?”

Albus nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he waves a hand, “I know you were never one of his followers. I know you went there and stopped him as soon as he declared war on the International Confederation of Wizards, but before that, well, I remember even earlier that year you always avoided giving your opinion on the matter. That was because you believed some of his words were true, didn’t you?”

He quickly decides that’s as close as anyone is ever going to get to the truth and smiles apologetically.

“I knew it!” says Phineas with a grin.

“Well now,” he grabs another biscuit and narrows his eyes, pushing down his instincts of turning and looking around to make sure Madam Puddifoot isn’t close enough to hear them, “don’t you go around saying that sort of thing, Phineas, please.”

“Of course not, don’t you worry…” he takes another sip of his tea. “I just think that he seems to have the right idea this time, you know? Presenting himself as some sort of ally, to muggles, you know what I mean?”

A shiver of excitement goes down Albus’s spine, one word exploding into a million ideas in his head. He doesn’t show it, but he does lean slightly forward. “I think I do,” he mutters cryptically.

Phineas nods enthusiastically. He looks happy, but he’s still on edge, and Albus suspects he’s delaying the conversation that brought him there. He gives him a few more seconds of false tranquillity and then asks:

“Why did you want to talk to me, Phineas?”

Phineas’ face immediately sobers. There are lines of concern around his eyes and mouth, but it is almost as if he’s relieved he can finally say what he came to say, which is: “Please take care of Sirius.”

“What do you—?”

“I know he can be reckless and stupid, but he’s a good — he’s a good man. I keep forgetting how much he’s grown. In my head, he’s still that sixteen-year-old that ran away from home. The one I _failed_ to rescue…”

“You took him in as soon as you found out.”

“Which was way too late. The Potters reacted before I did!”

“The Potters noticed their son’s best friend wasn’t answering any of his letters. That alarmed them. But you always had trouble contacting him. You couldn’t have figured it out on your own.” He wants to add that the boy hadn’t been his responsibility either. He’d been the son of a cousin, like so many others he had, but he knows Phineas would disagree. He sighs. “But let’s not talk about that. You’re right, he can be reckless. I don’t know about stupid. Although I promise you, I will keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t know how much Phineas has figured out about the Custodians — but he definitely knows Sirius is involved in something of that nature, and he has probably deduced that Albus must be involved as well. It is not surprising; Phineas has always been very smart.

They then go back to talk about unproblematic things, reminiscence of their youths, and end up losing count of the refills of their drinks. By the time he goes back to Hogwarts, he’s missed dinner, but he isn’t upset. He had a good time, and what’s even better, his conscience isn’t torturing him even as he starts a letter that could get him thrown into Azkaban if it were ever intercepted.

He decided back in October that he would stay as far away as possible from Gellert’s plans, and he’s been managing pretty well. It helps, of course, that Gellert noticed and not once has tried to involve him directly.

But he _wants _to, Merlin, he wants to suggest things to him. Wants to engage in passionate conversations about nature and philosophy and politics with him again.

He wants to help Gellert, because he knows Gellert is right. It’s just easier to admit it after hearing a good, intelligent man display a similar opinion.

It’s not just easier, it’s simply way _too_ easy.

As easy as breathing.

♠

** _Paris, France. 23 February 1936._ **

The number of people who want to join his movement after his speech in Budapest is ridiculously high. Many of them probably won’t commit fully, and others will be spies, but they are happy with the results nonetheless. They do a quick screening before a deeper one, and Gellert is very pleased with the variety of the volunteers — different ages, social classes and family backgrounds, he seems to have reached people in all sorts of circumstances. What could be more flattering and reassuring than that? What could be a more powerful validation of his words, than the empiric proof of them ringing true to all sorts of people?

“I believe some of the spies we’ve identified are not connected to any governments,” says Nagel arranging four photographs on the table.

Gellert frowns and passes his eyes over what he assumes are the spies he’s referring to. “What do you mean?”

“Many governments have tried to infiltrate our lines, of course, but there are some spies that, I believe, are not passing their intel to any governments but to some other type of organization.”

He hums. It isn’t that surprising, but he tells him to have someone particularly skilled keeping an eye on them. It only bugs him a little that three of them were from the UK. And since he already had planned a visit to Scotland for that night, it lingers on his mind a little longer. But eventually it vanishes, for he is excited. He grabs the purple quill that goes with the scarf that he wraps around his neck —both gifts from Albus that Yuletude—, looks around to make sure that everything in his studio is in its right place, and he leaves.

♠

** _Hogsmeade, Highlands, Scotland._ **

It is cold and completely deserted when he makes it to the usual spot near the woods to meet with Gellert. It isn’t strange, on a Sunday so late, and he doesn’t feel the need to contain his smile when he sees Gellert already standing there, waiting for him, with the scarf that he made for him. He was right — purple looks marvellous on him.

It is only when he stops at the usual distance that he notices Gellert has a quill on his hand. He understands right away, in spite of the overwhelming shock.

“A portkey?”

“I’d like to speak with you in my apartment. I’m tired of having to look over my shoulder. Besides, it’s really cold in here.” He offers the quill to Albus. “Well?”

Albus takes a deep breath. Then, he grabs the portkey, and he merely has a second to appreciate Gellert’s smile before they ground is vanishing beneath his feet, and they’re gone. When he opens his eyes, Gellert’s smile is still there, and that only makes his heart beat faster. It takes considerable effort to look away, and when he does, a treacherous grin makes it to his own face.

Gellert’s flat in Paris is exactly what Albus pictured it would be.

“Do you like it?”

“I do,” Albus admits, almost timidly. “It suits you.”

“Does it, now?”

He hums, because it’s true, but he cannot shake off the dread in the pit of his stomach. He’s in Gellert’s hideout, the place the Custodians have been trying to find since their foundation, and that will be just another secret he’ll have to keep from them.

“What’s wrong?” asks Gellert, frowning with concern. The smile is gone, and that almost hurts as badly as the rest.

Albus doesn’t even entertain the idea of lying, but he looks away in a desperate attempt to keep it all quiet nevertheless.

“Albus?”

“I imagine you’re aware that those who are trying to catch you will infiltrate your lines of followers, yes?”

“Of course. We’ve identified around twenty-eight spies, from several governments and…” he narrows his eyes, “other groups.”

“Really?”

“Albus.”

“I can’t tell you who they are. I’m not going to tell you anything about them.”

“You’re with them.”

“I’m not a spy, if that’s what you’re implying. They have no idea we’re friends.”

“Is that what we are? Really?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying anything. I just asked you a question. A logical one. We weren’t friends before.”

“Of course we were.”

“No. We weren’t.”

Albus’s heart is breaking, and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to continue with that silly argument because he needs to hear Gellert knows he’s wrong, because they were friends — still are. Gellert is Albus’s most precious friend. But he knows that is not the real issue, and it’ll only lock them in a loop where the anger and hurt will just grow. He needs to address _it_.

“I tried to stay out of it, but they…” he runs a hand through his hair and releases a shaky breath. “I can’t. I can’t act as if the situation wasn’t alarming, and I certainly cannot say I support you. I could lose my job for that, Gellert.” He could lose a lot of other things. Affection, respect, admiration… the public opinion of him would forever be scarred. And he isn’t sure which one of all those worries him the most.

“I know, and that’s why I would never ask you to do it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“But you’re upset.”

“Of course I am upset. They got you on their side! They…! You had already rejected the bloody ministry but couldn’t refuse some clandestine group? Was it someone you respected? Old students of yours?” He notices the way Albus looks away, and he laughs cruelly. “Of course. Courageous little buggers, right, from that school house of yours, and what seems to be a pathological disregard for rules and self-preservation!”

“That’s unnecessary. Gellert, I’m doing my best to stay out of everything, I—”

“I know, I know that, but you shouldn’t have to! They should just leave you alone!”

“They’re fighting for what they think is right, and they believe I’m on their side. You can’t blame them for—”

“Yes, yes, I can, and that’s exactly what I’m doing!”

“Grow up, Gellert, you’re no longer a teenager!”

“You think I don’t know that? Just because I spent three decades of my life wasting away on a cell, you think I’m not aware of how old I am? You think I don’t know exactly how much time I’ve lost?”

“No, I — that’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t care what you meant!”

“Ah,” he licks his lips and takes a step back, “then I guess there is no point in having a conversation now.”

Gellert’s eyes widen for a second, but the anger is still there. He folds his arms on top of his chest and tilts his chin up. “I guess so.”

Albus nods and disapparates.

Forty seconds later, he apparates on the hallway outside from the room he’d been in and knocks on the door urgently, incessantly until Gellert finally opens it. He looks furious but his expression shifts to shock as soon as he sees him.

“Albus?”

“I didn’t like the way we parted.”

Relief floods Gellert, and it shows on his face. “I didn’t like it either.”

They stand awkwardly for a moment until Gellert steps aside and Albus enters.

“We were friends,” Albus says, and he doesn’t care that he sounds whiny or that he is pouting. His heart is still pounding.

“Yes,” says Gellert right away, an absolute agreement.

“We still are.”

“Yes.”

He stares at those mismatched eyes he knows so well, and the words are out before he can think better of it.

“I was thinking about something the other day, and now I can’t seem to forget it.”

“What is it?”

Albus purses his lips and hesitates, one last time. After he says this, there’s no going back. He holds his own forearms and paces to the window.

“I heard someone say that now you’re presenting yourself as an ally of muggles.”

Gellert arches his eyebrows.

“And I couldn’t… well, that’s ultimately what Riddle is doing. He’s working with a muggle. To do bad things, sure, but that’s what he’s doing.”

“Yes. I’m not.”

“No, but maybe you should.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if the war from your visions is going to come true, and the bad guys are going to be muggles and wizards… then there’s no reason for the good guys not to be muggles and wizards as well.”

Gellert gasps softly, his eyes digging holes in the back of Albus’s head.

“If you were to work with the governments that will oppose Hitler, then maybe, eventually, I mean, it would only be logical to…”

“To break the International Statute of Secrecy… for the greater good,” says Gellert.

He turns around, and he isn’t surprised to find Gellert less than a foot away. It isn’t close enough.

“Exactly,” he says.

“I thought you didn’t want to get involved.”

“I’m already involved.”

“Because reckless children forced your hand. This is different.”

“Yes.” He grabs Gellert’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “It is.”

“Albus…”

“I don’t want a thoughtless slaughter. I don’t want people to die if it can be helped. I don’t want people to suffer if it can be helped. But I’m on your side, Gellert.” He brings Gellert’s hand to his lips and kisses the back of it without looking away from his eyes, not even for a second. “Until the very end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been restructuring some parts as I figure out exactly what I want from this story (I did! And I’m so happy with it!), and it’s been chaotic — at some point, March of 1937 was in between July and November of 1936 and I was losing my mind! But now I feel like everything’s coming together and I’m really excited to hear what you guys will think!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the irregular updates. I fully intended to publish last Saturday, but I simply couldn't. Finishing this chapter has been... hard. You see, I'm Chilean. I live in Chile.
> 
> Since Friday, doing anything has been hard. I can't focus. All I can do is watch the news, check social media, and go out to protest--early in the morning, for where I live, the curfew is at six pm. Where I live, it is illegal to be on the streets after 18:00 hrs.
> 
> Feel free to ask me on a comment or on Tumblr @discretocincel about anything. I'll try to post next chapter soon, for I really love this story, and I love you all.
> 
> Also, a small warning: there could be some sexual undertones from now on, nothing too explicit but still. Proceed with caution and all.

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. 24 February 1936._ **

As he wakes up, Albus thinks that he probably has never been more annoyed to have to give an early class on a Monday. The mattress he’s in is absurdly soft and the sheets are warm, just like the arm around his waist and the chest his head is currently resting on. He doesn’t want to move. Ever. He wants to stay exactly where he is and forget about the rest of the world — maybe he could write a letter to Armando saying he got sick? Something contagious, so that no one is tempted to check on him. It could work. He could make it work. He just needs to ask Gellert for some paper, and…

“Are you seriously considering skipping your job today?” his pillow asks, a hoarse and amused sound that sends shivers down his spine and gets his blood running.

“You wouldn’t want me to?” Albus inquires, both comforted and bothered by the position which doesn’t allow him to see Gellert’s face. He still doesn’t move. Gellert tightens his grip around him, and Albus’s heart starts beating even faster.

“If I could, I would like to stay here with you for an eternity.” He kisses the top of Albus’s head. “But we can’t. Not if we want to keep the world from utter destruction.”

“Do we have to?”

“We live in it, my love.”

Albus sighs. “Ah, right.” He wants to be mad, but it’s difficult when his chest wants to burst with happiness. It’s thrilling, just imagining what the world will be like once they fix it. He knows the road to get there will be long and difficult, but they will be together, and for that he knows he’ll endure every sacrifice. He closes his eyes again and breathes in Gellert’s scent, letting his fingers softly roam over the warm skin. He wishes they could get some of the lost time back — if only just to stay in bed a little longer. “What time is it in Scotland?” he asks.

“Early,” says Gellert.

That is enough.

Albus straddles Gellert’s hips and licks his lips, taking a moment to appreciate the view in front of him. The man underneath smiles lazily at him, beautiful mismatched eyes reminding him of the night before, which makes his blood boil. “Your hair has gotten longer,” he notices, loving the way it looks spread on the pillow.

“Yes. I recall you were not fond of my hairstyle when we met again in October.”

Albus grins playfully. “No, I did not like it very much.”

Gellert places his hands firmly on Albus’s hips and thrusts his upwards. “And now?”

Albus buries one hand on Gellert’s hair, softly at first, and then tugs a little harder. “I love it,” he whispers. His free hand slowly runs over Gellert’s stomach all the way up until he cups his cheek. “I love you.”

Gellert turns his head to drop a tender kiss on Albus’s palm, then says: “I love you too.”

He’s dreamed with those words for years, and for a moment, he wonders if this isn’t a dream as well. Not long ago, waking up on Gellert’s bed would have been unimaginable.

He quickly decides that if it is, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Not if it means going back to a world where he isn’t allowed to taste Gellert’s skin, kiss his lips, or tangle his fingers in his hair. A world where he couldn’t hear his voice. Where they couldn’t share their most intimate thoughts. To Albus, that’s not a world worth living. Not anymore. He likes better the weird limbo he’s in now, for no secret is too heavy so long as he’s allowed to go back to Gellert in the end. No sacrifice is too large if it means that, when all is over, they’ve managed to fix at least a fraction of the world’s problems. And he’s certain that they will. There, where focusing on anything that isn’t Gellert —Gellert’s hands, Gellert’s eyes, Gellert’s lips, Gellert’s cock— turns difficult, he’s certain that nothing can stop them.

“Can you stay for breakfast?” Gellert asks while they’re still breathing heavily, hair sticking to their skin with sweat and limbs wonderfully tangled.

“That depends. What time is it in Scotland?”

Gellert raises one hand to catch his wand and then flickers it lazily.

Albus takes one look at the large numbers that appear on the air and swears loudly. In seconds, he’s out of the bed and dressed, though according to Gellert, there’s no way anyone could see him and not know he’d just been nicely fucked.

“One thing is skipping breakfast, but I’ve never been late to give a class! Never! Not once in over thirty years!”

“Calm down. You’re going to make it. You still have a few minutes.”

“You said it was early!”

“It _is _early. Eight in the morning for me has always been early, you know that.”

“But breakfast in Hogwarts start at seven thirty, and _you_ know that!”

“I’m sorry.”

Albus stops struggling with his hair and turns to give Gellert a look that wants to be chastising but ends up being ridiculously fond. “You are unbelievable.”

Gellert shrugs and stands, stretching his arms over his head, unapologetically naked. He notices Albus’s eyes on him and smirks. “Before you go,” he flickers his wand again and a little box flies to his hand from a nearby chest of drawers, “take this with you,” he hands the box to him, “so you can return to this room whenever you want to.”

Albus arches his eyebrows and immediately opens it, revealing a necklace with the symbol of the Hallows. He studies it curiously while a delighted smile expands on his face. It is not exactly a portkey, but the trace of the magic on it is distinctly of the same nature, surely a derivative of the original enchantment, if only more complex. “Did you make this?”

Gellert hums and nods once. “I came up with the spell work around December, with help of a trusted acolyte; MacDuff. You should meet him. He has a strange mind.” He’s certain he could entertain Albus for a while.

“I’d like to meet him one day,” says Albus, intrigued. “But are you sure I can just come whenever I want to? What if you’re busy? What if someone sees me?”

Gellert shakes his head and grabs Albus’s hands in his. “You’ll arrive directly in this room, and no one else is allowed to enter. These are my sleeping quarters.” He smirks. “The worst that could happen is me not being here, or me being naked.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would be so bad.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Wait, which one?”

Albus’s eyes twinkle, and Gellert wants to kiss the satisfied smile off his face. It takes him a moment to realize he _can_, and so he does, pulling him close by the front of his shirt. Albus’s fingers tangle in his hair, and he’s tempted to fall back into bed, but he’s afraid if they do, they’re never going to leave the room, and they both have things to do. They’re busy men, and a new week just started — though it feels like it is his life which just restarted; pressed close against Albus, he finally feels like things are back on track, the way they should be. He refuses to mourn the lost time when they have so much more ahead of them.

He feels young again, and not only because he doesn’t hurt, but because there is a future he’s eager for, and because he’s resolute he’s not going to die anytime soon. Not now that his bed will no longer be empty.

Letting go of him so he can dissaparate is harder than anything he can remember. Thirty years in prison are a joke that can’t compare — for Albus is leaving, and although the world is entirely different from the one they’d been living in up until the night before, it still isn’t one where they can openly face their enemies together. Not yet. But that’ll change. He’s going to make sure of that.

He is a little disappointed that night when he goes to bed without having heard from Albus all day, but he’d known that would happen. He can almost see how often Albus must have stopped himself from contacting him — because it happened to him as well. But they’re busy men. Busy men that, one day hopefully soon, will be together every night. His sheets still smell of Albus, and that’s all it takes for Gellert to fall asleep with a smile on his face.

♠

** _London, England. 25 February 1936._ **

Working from home has many benefits, especially for an introvert, and not that many disadvantages, according to Remus Lupin, if one is organized enough. A strict schedule helps. Self-discipline as well, of course. And another major factor would be, one’s housemates. Normally, Remus considers himself lucky in all those aspects.

The rare occasions in which his husband is sick in bed would be exceptions, though. He’d read somewhere that healers were terrible patients, and at least when it comes to Sirius Black, it is entirely true. He’s whiny and useless, and whenever Remus isn’t by his side, he complains. To a certain degree, Remus understands; for if he feels sick enough to stay in bed, that often means most tasks, including reading, become tiresome and complicated, if not entirely impossible. Conversation is the only entertainment Remus can provide, and thus he tries to do just that, at the expense of his work. However, six uninterrupted hours of a very paranoid Sirius who doesn’t seem capable of discussing anything that isn’t alarming and borderline calamitous is simply more than what even his loving husband can handle.

“I’m going to check out that bakery your uncle told us about,” says Remus, half an hour or so after lunch, which they ate in bed.

“You’re going to _leave_ me alone?”

“Yes,” he replies unapologetic. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I can’t. I get dizzy when I close my eyes.”

“Walk around the house to stretch your legs a little bit, then. Maybe if you get tired, sleeping will become easier.”

“I can’t. My muscles hurt — _everything_ hurts!”

Remus hums as he puts on a scarf and gloves. He feels like walking, if only to get some fresh air and forget all about Sirius’s crazy theories. “I don’t know what to tell you, Pads. Just wait for me. I won’t be long, I promise.”

“Don’t break your word, Moony.”

“I won’t.”

“Please, I need you.”

“Yes, Padfoot, I know.” He bends and drops a kiss on Sirius’s forehead. He then attempts to straighten, but Sirius grabs his scarf and pulls him down for a proper, short kiss on the lips.

“I love you,” says Sirius.

“I love you too. I’ll bring you something delicious to eat,” he promises and leaves with no guilt.

In current times, it gets difficult to continue with domestic tasks and their everyday lives. It’s hard to focus on his next book, and he knows that for Sirius it has been hard to check on patients that barely need a thing. It’s difficult, because there’s a vicious weight ever-present on their backs with the notion that every second that goes by it is a second lost, where by doing nothing the allow doom to get closer. Every second that goes by, the enemy is growing stronger, and they’re doing _nothing_. The fact that they haven’t got a clue on what they could be doing does not help in the slightest. But, no matter how oppressive that weight may be, they’ve got to keep going. Their responsibilities haven’t gone away — not the bills, not their jobs, not their daughter and certainly not their health.

It’s gotten easier, after four months. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at it. But nowadays he’s grown used enough to the anxiety in his gut to be able to smile at the chubby man behind the counter once he makes it to the store. He takes his time studying all the baked goods the place has to offer, deliberating which would be best for Sirius’s sore throat and which ones may last well enough for the next day’s breakfast, when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Lupin?” a soft voice asks at his back.

He turns, and it only takes him a moment to recognize her. He remembers her from the Custodians meetings; an American Auror that Mad-Eye Moody seemed to respect. He gives her a smile and waves a hand. “Hi. Tina, isn’t it?”

She nods. “I recommend the scones,” she gestures at them with her chin. “They’re delicious.”

“Thank you. Someone recommended this place to me after I ate with them — he had some dark brownies that were just amazing, but I can’t seem to find them.”

“Oh, those are just too good. They already ran out. You need to come before noon to get them.”

“I see,” he purses his lips. Phineas could’ve warned him. “Well then, what else can you recommend? Do you know if there’s anything kind enough for a person who is sick in bed?”

She strokes her chin and hums. “I think I do. Give me one moment.”

At the end, she has plenty of suggestions and Remus enough of a sweet tooth, that he takes fourteen different pastries, to her horror. For some reason Remus cannot comprehend she feels guilty, and to appease her, he invites her to share with him one of the muffins he bought, which contains blueberries — the kind Sirius dislikes. She declines at first, but Remus doesn’t miss the slight hesitation, just like he hadn’t missed her enthusiasm when she suggested those to him. He only insists once, and not a minute later they’re sitting down on a bench in a nearby park.

He feels just a tiny bit guilty, now. But he really doesn’t want to go back to Sirius’s theories just yet. His last one had included a vampire-goblin alliance, and the part about Grindelwald living in one of the vaults in Gringotts wasn’t even the craziest part.

“I’ve read all your books,” she confesses around a mouthful of her muffin. “I believe you’re one of the greatest novelists of our time.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“I’m just being honest. My husband thinks so too. You may have heard of him, Newton Scamander?”

“Scamander? The Magizoologist?”

She nods and hums. “That’s him.”

That is a fascinating turn of events — Remus’ latest novel includes a dragon’ traffic ring, and he hasn’t been able to find much information for the background. Before he knows it, they’ve been talking for an hour and she’s the one that realizes it. They exchange addresses and agree to meet for lunch later in the week, and then she runs off back to her office, where she’d been headed to before. He watches her leave, takes a deep breath, and hopes the many pastries are enough to convince Sirius to forgive him.

♠

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. 27 February 1936._ **

The sound of the rain against the window is comforting, giving the impression of shielding the meeting from any prying eyes or ears. It’s later than usual — normally he meets with them for breakfast, but that’s when they’re trying to be subtle. This is an official meeting, even if it still is in his studio. Gellert believes that one can never be too careful, especially when one is a wanted fugitive and head of a large organization.

“The French spies are convinced you’re hiding in an island on the Mediterranean Sea,” says Nagel, who is seated on a chair by his right.

“The Dutch are divided,” informs Krafft, in his feet, a little further. He and Carrow are the only one standing, but unlike her, he’s as still as a statue. “Half of them argue you probably never left Austria. The others think you went to Africa.”

“The Spanish think that too,” says Vinda, on his left in the divan, “that you’re in Africa, I mean. More specifically, in the French protectorate in Morocco,” her expression turns mocking. “I believe whoever is pushing with that theory isn’t only thinking of catching you, though.”

He matches her smile and shakes his head, entertained if only a little angry. He’s already thinking of ways to prove them wrong before they decide to send an expedition group, of course, but that can wait until after the meeting. He still feels the same shame and disgust he felt when he first learnt about it in his teenage years. Back then, he had associated imperialism to muggles, but now he knows better. He understands that the magical community is just as guilty in what Europe has done to Africa.

“The sole German spy,” says Carrow with a sneer, still pacing back and forth behind the chairs that are in across from Gellert, “has effectively vanished, like Marvolo said he would, after he spoke with Hitler.”

“As per the ones that aren’t connected to any governments,” says Krafft sombrely, “we suspect the group is probably based in Great Britain, as we first speculated, but we haven’t managed to discover much else.”

“We think it is safe to presume their leader is Albus Dumbledore,” says Vinda. “Surely, none of you disagree?”

MacDuff laughs once, cruelly and darkly, but his expression is one of genuine humour. Gellert suddenly wants to laugh as well, if only for a different reason, but he doesn’t, and the meeting continues for another hour. By the time they all leave, he’s exhausted, and all he wants to do is lock himself in his sleeping quarters.

He isn’t expecting to find Albus there, filling one of his half-finished sudokus.

“Making these from scratch is harder than just filling one,” he mutters distractedly, frowning at the paper and not paying Gellert much attention. “I have two threes in one row, and to fix it I’ll have to modify all the ones and sixes in the bottom squares!”

“It happens,” admits Gellert, bemused. “Good evening, love. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” He rests his hands on the backrest of Albus’s chair and savours the tea that’s still noticeable in his lips, probably due to the ridiculous amounts of sugar Albus puts in it. His chest swells while he still tries to wrap his head around the fact that he’s allowed to do that again. When he opens his eyes, Albus’s are still closed for another second, and the view is mesmerizing.

“I didn’t want to come before Friday because I have early classes every morning.”

“But today it’s Thursday.”

Albus sighs. “Yes, I know. But I couldn’t help myself. This,” he holds the necklace, “has been tempting me all week. It burns my skin when I have it on me, but I can’t stand leaving it out of my sight.”

If Gellert is honest, he finds difficult to tear his eyes away from it too. It may be primitive and he’s not about to say it out loud, but the view of Albus wearing what to Gellert has always been _their _symbol is the ultimate reaffirmation of his loyalty — and for it to be something that was made by him, it only makes it more special. It’s as idealistic and politic as it is romantic, and he can’t wait to see him wearing nothing but the necklace.

It must show on his face, for Albus arches one eyebrow and says: “Do your followers know deep down you’re such a dirty old man?”

Gellert considers making a joke and taking a step back, but he catches his breath when Albus pulls him closer by the front of his shirt and forgets all about it as the kiss gets, effectively, dirtier. If he were younger, he would join Albus on the chair, but he doesn’t dream of it, and drags him to the bed instead.

He swears he could forget all about the outside world in there, with Albus under him, with his hands and his eyes and the taste of him. He doesn’t want to leave that room. He wants to stay there where he can keep Albus all to himself, where they can be open and argue and criticize the way the world works without worrying about the repercussions.

“It makes me feel better,” he confesses in a whisper, later that evening, “knowing that you carry it with you.” He holds the symbol between two fingers and studies it a moment before placing it over Albus’s heart. “That way, I know that if you’re ever in danger, you can come here, where you’ll be safe.”

Albus’s grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers, waiting for Gellert to meet his eye. When he does, his expression is one of amusement. “I believe you overestimate the dangers of my job, Gel.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” he whispers, “I do.” He cups Gellert’s cheek. “I worry about you, too. Please, be safe. I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you again.”

“Me neither.”

They fall asleep, for the second time in less than a week after thirty-six years of distance, tangled together. It is wonderful. In the morning half the covers are on the floor, Gellert’s right arm is numb, and the symbol of Albus’s necklace is pressed between their chests, leaving a painful mark on both of them, but they couldn’t care less, because they’re together, and because orgasms in the morning are a great way to start the day.

“I could get used to this,” Albus mumbles, clearly satisfied and deliciously sore. He’ll have to go soon, but he’ll definitely remember him, and what they did, all day.

“Yeah,” Gellert replies, stroking Albus’s cheek with his thumb, “me too. Will you be able to stay a little longer on Saturday?”

“I think so. I have some essays to grade, though.”

“Bring them. Bring them and stay the whole day.”

“Okay.”

Gellert as well could get used to it all too easily, no doubt. And he doesn’t mind.

♠

**_Ground floor,_** **_8 Rue Cannebière, Paris. 29 February 1936._**

Ever since late October, Vinda has had a routine. Her afternoons vary, for she has many responsibilities as one of Gellert Grindelwald’s most trusted acolytes, but from the moment she opens her eyes up until three in the afternoon, she usually does the same every day.

That Saturday, however, when she reaches the study, she’s shocked to discover that the man she usually spends her morning with isn’t there. She wonders if she should worry, but her instincts tell her she shouldn’t. And she always trusts her instincts.

Vinda knows he has something else on his mind — he’s had something else in his mind all week. But no matter how curious she is, she simply won’t ask. She can’t. One thing is daring to call him ‘Gellert’, and another is to presume she can intrude like that on things that could or could not involve their organization.

Besides, she has her own problems. Carrow has been insufferable lately, and MacDuff seems to believe she cares about his opinion — or at least, that he’s free to give it to her. She wants to correct him, but he knows too much. He’s the only one who does. She imagines telling Gellert about it and laughs out loud.

She leaves the building once it becomes obvious the man simply won’t show up, determined to find something extremely sweet for breakfast, and almost doesn’t react fast enough to summon an umbrella charm before she’s completely soaked. She should’ve noticed the rain, but she’d been distracted, thinking about Carrow again, and decides to go in a different direction just to force herself to pay attention to her surroundings.

Not four blocks later, she’s glad she did. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have noticed the girl crying.

Vinda watches the girl from a distance at first, making sure she is indeed alone, and that she isn’t hurt. By the way she’s covering her ears, ignoring the rain, and sobbing painfully, she deduces in just a few moments that she may be a Legilimens, and searches in her mind for something to sooth her. She doesn’t know why, but the idea of just leaving her there simply feels wrong.

She stands by her side and offers her a white handkerchief while extending her umbrella charm so she stops getting wet. Only when the girl turns to look at her, she asks: “Can I help you?”

The girl bites her bottom lip and watches the handkerchief as if she doesn’t know what to do, but Vinda simply waits. Eventually, she takes it.

“What’s your name?” Vinda asks softly.

“Queen—Queenie Goldstein.” She sniffles and presses the handkerchief against her right eye. “What’s yours?”

“Vinda.” She offers her hand this time, and shortly pulls her to her feet effortlessly. “Let me help you.”

The girl nods.

Vinda smiles.

♠

**_Top floor,_** **_8 Rue Cannebière, Paris. 5 March 1936._**

His second Saturday away from Hogwarts, he still feels a little guilty, but not nearly as much as he did the week before. It probably helps that he’s spent an entire week staying the night and having breakfast there, or perhaps it’s just the fact that he has many other things in his mind. Each time he catches a glimpse of the church out the window, the palms of his hands tingle with nerves as he remembers the promise Gellert made him about going to mass — a _muggle_ Catholic mass! — together the next day. And Gellert’s heat, from where they’re touching, even as they do completely innocent and unrelated things, side by side on the bed, is comforting enough that it drowns his guilt. Besides, he’s being responsible. He is preparing his lessons for the following week while Gellert evaluates the defence budgets of several European countries — which Albus prefers not knowing how he acquired. It is basically a grotesque parody of domesticity, but Albus unapologetically loves it. He focuses on those things, and on those feelings, but after lunch, his mood darkens, as his other responsibilities loom over him. He does his best not to show it, and when Gellert surprises him with a quick handjob in between sloppy kisses that taste like sweet pear juice, his mind is blissfully empty for a little while.

Then sadly Gellert goes and says: “I’ll have to leave for some time today. We’re having an extraordinary meeting this afternoon, but I’ll try to be back shortly.”

“Oh,” it’s perfect, really. He has a chance to keep it quiet and avoid the awkwardness. But he doesn’t. “Actually, I’ve got to go too, I’ve got a…” his voice dies as he bites his bottom lip. He should just say it. ‘I’ve got a meeting too’, but he can’t. He just _can’t_. He can’t say out loud that he’s going to meet with people that want to catch Gellert and trap him again.

“Ah,” Gellert clicks his tongue. “Of course.”

“Don’t be mad,” he begs.

“I’m not. I understand. Just,” he grabs Albus’s wrist, “come back to me once you’re done.”

Albus cups Gellert’s face with his free hand and presses their lips together in a tender and chaste gesture. “I promise.”

Gellert knows Albus will keep his word, and that should be enough to make him happy. A couple of weeks prior it definitely would have, knowing that Albus would go back to him at some point later in the day. But people always get used to things improving just too fast, and although the idea of being with Albus any amount of time will always be wonderful, it isn’t enough to appease his annoyance.

It still pisses him off, knowing that Albus feels so guilty because of _them_. He had already said no, and they had no right to ask again. No right. Getting involved into something as dangerous as that should be an entirely personal decision. Choosing a side should be entirely a personal decision — and Albus did. He chose Gellert’s side. But the public’s opinion of him would be destroyed if they heard it.

For now. They’re going to change that one day, and Albus will be able to stand by his side.

One day.

“Why are you upset?” asks Vinda, who is, as usual, the first one to arrive.

“Reckless, selfish people make me upset,” he declares.

She arches one eyebrow. “Is that so? Please, tell me more. Who’s being selfish?”

“Some people I don’t even know.”

She gives him a puzzled look, clearly lost and probably concerned he's lost his mind, so he sighs and says: “Don’t worry about it.”

Growing up, Gellert never made any friends. They didn’t live near any other children and didn’t have any cousins or siblings. At school, he preferred to keep to himself. Those who were interested in him were the kind of people Gellert wanted nothing to do with, and the few he wouldn’t have minded knowing always kept their distance.

Vinda is a friend. He feels comfortable with her. Still, he’s not about to pour his heart to her. Thankfully, not long after Carrow arrives —and he deliberately ignores the look the two women exchange, for whatever has been going on with them is none of his business— followed closely by Nagel and Krafft. MacDuff makes it not five minutes later, and thus Gellert begins their extraordinary meeting. He still feels angry, but luckily, with what they must discuss, he usually does. Riddle still meets with Hitler regularly, and the muggle has not been happy with his two very public appearances, but somehow, they’re still convinced Gellert wants to cooperate as much as they do. What they do not share is who else is Hitler considering an ally. Nagel suggests Italy, and Gellert trusts his instinct, but they aren’t going to ask Riddle about it.

“Their anti-Bolshevism may be loud, but ultimately, Germany needs the Soviet Union to obtain raw materials. It is likely Hitler will try to make an alliance with them, if only for economic reasons alone,” says Vinda, reasonably.

They too, need to make alliances soon. Just them is not enough. Gellert knows that he’ll have to start moving, to expand his influence outside of Europe, soon. But now that he finally has Albus again, he doesn’t want to leave him, and he’s tempted to wait till summer to bring him along. He can’t, though. Hitler is growing impatient, and he’s meeting with Riddle almost every week. Besides, the chances of someone recognizing them would increase dangerously, and Albus simply cannot be seen with Gellert. Not yet, at least.

“I’ll have to go alone,” he says.

Krafft frowns. “Alone?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Carrow. “There’s no need. One of us could—”

“No,” replies Gellert, resolute. “I must go alone.”

The meeting is over soon after that, and his acolytes leave looking unsure about his last words, but they don’t try to argue further, which is for the better, for Gellert is not on the mood for an argument. He’s still too angry. And he only stands by the window for a minute before deciding to go back to his bedroom. He may take a nap, or plan some more, or read a book, or even make another sudoku, but whatever it is, he wants to do it next to the pillows that smell like Albus.

He’s about to leave when he notices that, in fact, not all of his acolytes left.

“What?”

“You used to be in the study all day,” comments Vinda, watching him suspiciously. “Now you’re always in your bedroom.”

Gellert arches his eyebrows. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I just imagine there must be a reason for that change, although I cannot tell what that may be.”

And he’s not going to tell her now. He shrugs. “Maybe I just found a better pillow, or I changed the colour of the curtains.”

She purses her lips. “Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

Maybe one day he’ll tell her. Maybe.

But he’s going to keep Albus his dirty little secret a little longer.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, real life over here is pretty surreal and I've got no idea when (if?) it'll go back to normal. But hey, I can at least say I'm being more productive with this story than the politicians in my country are being to fix everything, so there's that!

** _Paris, France. 6 March 1936._ **

“Nicolas will be hurt if he hears I came to the opera without him,” says Albus, not a drop of repentance on his voice or demeanour, while they take a seat on Gellert’s box.

Gellert snorts. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” He places his arm on the backrest of Albus’s chair. “You’ve always been good at keeping secrets. I’m sure you can handle it.”

“I may be good at it, but it doesn’t mean I like it,” he replies, pouting. The peck on his lips that Gellert gives him next takes him by surprise and leaves him smiling, though. He wants to reprimand him — they are, after all, in a muggle theatre, and muggles still have issues with same-sex relationships, but he knows it is unlikely anybody noticed, considering how high and isolated they are.

He wonders if they’re on a date, but he doesn’t say it, and he shortly is distracted when the play starts. The music captivates his heart, the colours on the stage are vibrant and attract all eyes, and the longing in the singer’s voice resonates with his own. By the third act, he’s hanging at the edge of his seat, with tears in his eyes, and an impossibly tight grip on Gellert’s hand. He’d thought he’d known what he was getting into, but ‘_Hannibal_’, and the prima donna in particular, caught him completely off guard. He stands up to applaud like the rest of the theatre and laughs at his own naiveté, for Gellert’s smile earlier that day should have been enough of a warning.

“That was beautiful!” he says as they go out.

Gellert nods and places a hand in the low of Albus’s back, subtly guiding him in the other direction. “I knew you’d like it.”

“Do you come to the muggle opera often now?” He wants to move closer, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t bother to look ahead, though, and focuses on Gellert’s face instead, which is always a nicer sight. “You’ve only mentioned it once or twice in your letters.”

Gellert shrugs. Unlike Albus, his eyes are studying their surroundings, as if he’s looking for something. “I can’t go to magical Paris unconcealed. I like wearing my own face, even when I’m purposefully avoiding people. The muggle theatre is a good alternative.”

“Yes, that makes sense. And I’m sure your face must be a very comfortable one; it certainly is very handsome.”

Gellert hums and abruptly turns them towards a narrow and deserted hallway. There, he takes a small bottle from the inside of his sleeve, and drinks it. The quickly darkening hair confirms Albus’s suspicion. He then offers another one to him.

“Is something wrong?” he asks with a frown, but he takes the bottle and downs it with no hesitation. His chin itches as his beard disappears.

“No. But I want to show you something, and I am a fugitive, and you’re famous. You can call me Antioch,” he winks an eye. “This way, come on.” He nods in the direction of some stairs, even further away from the main hall of the theatre, and grabs Albus’s right hand, immediately intertwining their fingers. “For one reason or another, a wizard bought this building back in 1764. He kept everything as it was, except for one little detail…” they come to a stop at the top of the stairs and flickers his wand, revealing an elegant, shiny door. He indicates silently for Albus to turn the doorknob, and he does. The door, unsurprisingly, is not locked.

He represses a gasp once they go inside a wide room filled with people in elegant garments and floating trays of champagne. There’s soft music in the background and he recognizes one of the main actors not far from them in an animated conversation with two beautiful witches and a wizard Albus vaguely remembers from his last conference in Paris. He squeezes Gellert’s hand in a silent gesture of gratitude and praise for preparing ahead.

“Oh,” a witch approaches them with a delighted smile, “_Monsieur Rosier!_ It is so nice to see you, it’s been too long since the last time you came!”

Gellert, in his borrowed face with brown eyes, returns her smile and nods his head. “Way too long, Madam Grandier. It’s good to see you.”

“And who is this handsome gentleman that accompanies you?”

“This is Monsieur Cyneric, my husband.”

She offers her hand to him, and Albus drops a kiss on her knuckles, making her giggle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam.”

“_Mon Dieu_, Antioch, your husband is adorable!” she bites her bottom lip and a mischievous gleam appears on her eyes. “Please, call me Anne Laure. Now,” she links her arm with Albus’s on his left, “come with me. Let me introduce you two to my husband, Jean Pierre. I finally got him to stay a little longer. He’s been so busy lately, you know.”

“I can only imagine,” says Gellert, nodding sensibly.

Albus wants to laugh in disbelief, because a whitehaired woman is carrying him around while he holds Gellert’s hand like it is the most natural thing in the world, and he can see where she’s leading them. He feels a little guilty, but he cannot help to imagine what those people would feel like if they ever found out Gellert Grindelwald was right under their nose.

The French Minister of Magic gives them an apologetic smile when he notices them and bows his head politely.

“Darling,” says Anne Laure, “this is Monsieur Antioch Rosier, I’ve told you about him. And this is his husband Cyneric. Aren’t they adorable? We’ve got to invite them over for dinner some time.”

Albus throws caution to the wind and simply hopes there are no accomplished legilimens in the room, and he tells Gellert through their bond: ‘_You are insane,_’ his smile turns a little wider than necessary for his clueless audience, but they don’t seem to notice, ‘_completely mad!_’

‘_Relax. She’s known me for nearly four months and she hasn’t got a clue_.’

Albus doesn’t doubt it. That doesn’t make it any less dangerous, of course, but he can’t deny that it is also extremely useful for their cause. Besides, it’s been a while since the last time he did anything ridiculously risky — it’s been a while since he’s felt free to be stupid, and maybe he shouldn’t, but with Gellert’s hand in his, he feels safe. And he knows that they’re going to be okay.

And it could be nice, going out with Gellert more often. They’re surrounded by strangers and it’s _nice_ to talk to them, exchanging knowing smiles and inside jokes with Gellert, standing near and unapologetically together. There, wearing another person’s hair and holding a hand with fingers that are calloused in all the wrong places, he feels more at ease and freer than he’s ever been, and he doesn’t want the night to end.

He doesn’t want any of it to end, because a part of him still believes there’s no way monsters can get a happy ending. But who knows? Maybe Cyneric and Antioch can retire and spend the rest of their days in an island somewhere their morals and principles never come into question.

“The identity you gave me tonight,” he asks around his last glass of wine, already back in Gellert’s apartment, “it is not of whoever’s face I was wearing, is it?”

Gellert smirks. He’s standing by the window but now his attention is back on Albus. “No, it isn’t.” He empties his glass and then leaves it floating in the air while he makes his way to the bed. “And neither is mine. I crafted an alias for situations like these, and I made one for you a couple of weeks ago.”

Albus arches one eyebrow and sends Gellert’s glass to a table with a flick of his wrist, not confident in their ability to concentrate on it much longer. “Is that so?”

Gellert shrugs one shoulder before sitting down to take off his shoes. “Thought it might be useful once meeting became too complicated. It was one of my acolytes’ idea actually,” he lies back and pushes his hair away from his face, lips stretching on a smile as he notices Albus crawling on top of him, straddling him, “that I’d do it. Nagel’s, back in October. He found a willing follower from a small town in Italy for the unlimited source of Polyjuice Potion, and Vinda, I believe I’ve told you about her…” He sighs and places a hand on Albus’s hair, enjoying the attention on his neck, “suggested I used her family name. It is a large and important enough family here in France that no one will question they’d never heard of me, but they won’t admit it either.”

Albus hums but only raises a few inches, supporting himself in his forearms at each side of Gellert’s head. “And this alter ego of mine that you made, it is your alter ego’s husband?”

“Does that bother you, my love?” He presses their foreheads together. “Should I propose again? I’ll get you a proper ring this time.”

Albus rolls his eyes and kisses the top of Gellert’s nose. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

“Oh, but now I want to do it! Back then I was so rash and ineloquent.”

“Not at all, you were simply passionate and direct. I loved it.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t the best judge back then. You were seventeen, and you loved everything I did.”

“I am the only judge. You proposed to _me_. _My_ opinion is the only one that matters.”

All of a sudden, Gellert wraps an arm around Albus’s waist and turns them over. “I believe my opinion matters as well. After all, an engagement requires two people’s agreement. And anyway, I strongly believe that you deserve better. That _we _deserve better.” He roams a finger over Albus’s flushed features, the ones he missed so much during the party. His other hand finds his way under Albus’s shirt, and the shiver that overcomes the body underneath makes his blood boil. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” replies Albus, breathless. His own fingernails sinking on the skin of Gellert’s back and probably leaving marks.

Good. Gellert would wear them like a crown. If he could, he would wear all of Albus’s words and kisses permanently printed over his skin like an armour against the world, but he relies on his memories and they’ve got a similar effect most of the time. For so long he’d only had a weak reminiscence of how powerful Albus’s support made him feel, but no longer. Now that’s a reality, and he’s never felt stronger, not even back when he was an impetuous, idiotic teenager. Though he has to admit he feels like that teenager every time they get naked, and the bliss that follows usually doesn’t go away for as long as they’re together.

Usually.

That night, barely after spelling away the mess they made of the sheets, Gellert’s smile disappears when he notices Albus’s bittersweet expression. “Is something wrong?” he asks worriedly.

Albus shakes his head. “No. It’s just that… well, I’ve got to go early tomorrow. I can’t keep skipping breakfast or someone is going to figure this out.”

Gellert hums. “One of my acolytes, Vinda, is intrigued. Apparently, I spend too much time in my bedroom now,” his smug grin returns, and he presses his mouth to Albus’s ear to whisper: “I wonder why that is.”

Albus finally laughs, and the sound is as delightful as the soft whistle of running water in the clear rivers of the Alps. Instead of feeling nostalgic for a simpler time, he just wants the future to arrive a little faster, so he can go back there, and take Albus with him.

“We’ll wake up early tomorrow, I promise.”

That would solve very little about the actual problem —Albus hasn’t been running late because of sleep—, but his words are enough to put him at ease, and so they fall asleep shortly after, limbs tangled together and hearts beating in sync.

♠

** _Vienna, Austria. 8 March 1936._ **

Hector Fawley has never liked Austria.

He couldn’t explain anyone why that is; maybe the weather, maybe the language, maybe just the knowledge that he’s as far from his home as he’s ever been. Nonetheless, the fact remains. He doesn’t like Austria, and whenever his job takes him there, he goes reluctantly. But he goes, and that is important. He does the things he must do. Even when he doesn’t want to.

And so, Hector Fawley goes to Austria, accompanied by the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his delegate to the International Confederation of Wizards, and his team of advisors chosen for this specific problematic. He isn’t happy. He isn’t confident none of them is going to mess up. That’s more people than he’s used to handling classified information. And enough of them are young and possibly naïve, probably ignorant of what international alliances really entail. For instance, Hector knows that all the other countries have spies as well as they do, but they’re not going to share what they know unless it is absolutely necessary, and he intends to do the same. He can only hope everyone in his crew is on the same page. Still, even though they arrive early, he cannot risk having _that _conversation. He orders them to enter the meeting room, but he goes outside, to one of the inner patios of the gigantic, opulent ancient building. He doesn’t have much time, but he takes a cigarette out and enjoys the solitude, no matter how short-lived. Almost immediately he is joined by the Spanish Minister of Magic, Pedro Torralba, but he still finds a smile for the man, who he considers a friend.

“Hector,” he nods, “how are you?”

Hector sighs. “Peachy. You?”

Pedro snorts as he lights his own cigarette with the tip of his wand. “Yeah. Just great.” He exhales a dense cloud of smoke. “I haven’t got the time for this mess, Hector. I’ve got my own problems back home.”

“You think I don’t?” He throws his head back and watches the sky. A bird passes by, fast and certain. Does the bird know where he’s going? Does he ever worry? Hector doubts it. That’s why he’s always wanted to be one. He steps on his cigarette’s butt and immediately lights another one. “I just want this to be over.” Or at the very least, the option of sending a delegate instead of going there himself. “Do you see the point of this?”

“This meeting?” Pedro shakes his head and wrinkles his large nose in a grimace of distaste. “Of course not. It’s ridiculous.”

Hector doesn’t know about that, but he nods his head there, where no one is around to witness it. He believes that’s the kind of thing one can only express in that sort of situation. He doesn’t remember until later that his Spanish friend has a very different understanding of the world, which becomes clear when, during the meeting, with all the incredulity and looking as bored as one can get, he asks:

“Is he really _that _dangerous?”

“Excuse me?” cries the Dutch minister, Johannes Ceelen. “Have you forgotten that, since his escape, he’s exposed the magical community twice?”

“I thought you controlled the situation,” replies the French Jean Pierre Grandier, glancing suspiciously at Hector and the Hungarian minister, Márk Rózsa.

“We did,” says Hector.

Márk shakes his head. “We managed to convince all witnesses that whatever he did was an elaborate trick, and that his speech was some sort of spectacle meant to promote a play. However, we couldn’t extract all memories of the scene. We tried and it didn’t work.” He turns to stare at Hector. “Did you have the same problem in December?”

Hector swallows. “It wasn’t necessary, in our case, to erase all their memories. Grindelwald made it easy for us — he called his spectacle fireworks.”

“Wait a minute,” hisses Jean Pierre. “You didn’t even _try_?”

“Let’s not get distracted, please,” says Pedro. “Grindelwald is gaining more and more followers across the continent, and we’re no closer to catch him than we were back in last October.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do differently? Because, to be completely honest,” says the Polish Minister of Magic, Anna Wyporska, who had been quiet so far, “I am out of ideas. I do not understand Grindelwald, at all. I can’t tell where he’ll appear next, or when. All I know is that he’s a better politician than most in my country, and that is a concerning truth.”

“He’s a murderer, a radical troublemaker, and an anarchist. His sentence was life in prison, and he must return to it. He’s a fugitive!”

“We all know that!”

“He escaped from _your_ prison!”

“He was right under your nose, and you lost him!”

“You should’ve been prepared!”

“Alright, that’s enough. We must be united in this,” says Wyporska, firm and cold as steel. “Let’s not look for guilt where there is none. Some of us may have committed mistakes, but that is not the root of the problem. And that’s what we must attack. Grindelwald. He’s our common enemy. It would be foolish of us to fight him separately.”

“What do you suggest?” asks Jean Pierre, leaning forward in his seat.

“I for starters think we should start interrogating people,” says Rózsa dragging his chair a little closer to the table. “We must find his followers. They can’t be all hiding in a cave, there are probably several that are still going to work every day. Those are the ones we need to find. And stop.”

Wyporska nods. “I agree. And we all should use the same method to investigate these people.”

“I believe that is a good idea, yes.”

“I don’t,” says Ceelen with a frown. “We’ve got different cultures, different trainings, and different strengths. I believe we could agree to do certain things the same way, but not everything. We can use different methods. And if you want, maybe we could meet again in two weeks or so to compare results. That way, we could pick the most efficient one.”

“That sounds logical, I like it,” agrees the German, Friedrich Rotenhahn, who had been quiet until then, nodding along the rest of his team.

At this point, Hector doesn’t know what he likes the least, but he pays attention and doesn’t argue much. It’s not worth it. Not in current times, after he messed up. Besides, by staying quiet, he forces his team of advisors to do the same. If only he could do the same once they’re back in London, his life would be easier. Nevertheless, credit goes where credit is due, and later that afternoon, it is not the advisors that give him a premature headache, but the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Torquil Travers, who is growing more and more annoying these days.

“Please forgive my words, sir, but don’t you think we should have told them about the barriers we found in the muggle minds? We’re all on the same side. We want the same thing.”

“We _haven’t_ _got_ to tell them a thing, Travers. Don’t be idiotic. Besides, Márk—Minister Rózsa already told them. They don’t need to hear it from us.”

Travers doesn’t look convinced, but at least he doesn’t insist. He clears his throat and nods, as if to indicate that he will now focus on the task at hand. “How are we going to go about this, sir?” he asks then.

Hector purses his lips and goes around his desk, cringing with the clicking sound of his advisors’ shoes. He waits until there’s silence, and then says: “We are going to do what we were told to do. We’re going to find Grindelwald’s sympathizers, and we’re going to arrest them.”

“But how are we going to find them?” asks one of his advisors, the newest one, a young nervous thing that speaks over thirteen languages and is an expert in international politics, both magical and muggle. Hector hasn’t yet learned his name.

He sighs. “Travers, you’re the expert, of course, but I’m sure your people will be able to recognize them through an adequate interrogation?”

Travers squares his shoulders and raises his head, and the minister does not notice his twitching fingers. “Of course,” says Torquil, “although, how to find the right people to interrogate would be the issue now.”

Hector shrugs one shoulder. “The situation is extraordinaire. Just interrogate everybody.”

Travers’s eyes widen. “E—everybody, sir?”

“That’s correct. We must prioritize, of course. You’ve got three days to make a list of those that shall be interviewed first. Those that were in London near Westminster on the 24th. Those that have been to the East, more importantly Hungary, of course. Then, everyone else. If you consider you should bring Aurors from other counties here to accelerate the process, by all means, do it. But if you consider they should go ahead and start in their towns, then I’ll agree with you as well. It is your decision, Travers, but give me results. I want at least half a dozen terrorists apprehended by this time next week.”

Travers swallows hard, pearls of sweat perfectly visible in his brow and temple. After a moment or two, he nods. “Very well, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go now. I need to start working immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah, you may go now.”

Once his office is thankfully empty, he pushes his chair back and opens his cabinet to reveal not more than two sad chocolate frogs and half a bottle of whiskey. He must stock up, _again_. The days in which he would only do it once a month have ended.

He just finished his eighth reserve of the year.

♠

** _Berlin, Germany. 10 March 1936._ **

Hitler rests his temple on his fist and glares at him. “I’m starting to believe Grindelwald doesn’t want to fight by our side.”

Marvolo forces his lips into a straight line. “It’s not that. He just doesn’t want to share leadership. Give me more time, Adolf, please.”

“I’m not the one to decide. I am not the one acting yet. I want to wait for you and fight together. But if he’s going to keep appearing alone…” he licks his lips, “I don’t know, Marv, can’t you tell him something? Can’t he at least mention us, when he’s talking to muggles?”

“Would you really like that? Look, I’m not sure I understand it, but he wants to cooperate with you. He’s not telling other people what he’s planning, but he definitely isn’t showing himself to people randomly. He must have a reason to do it this way, one that will be beneficial to us all.”

“You better be right,” says Hitler. “He’s intelligent, you say?”

“He’s a genius. And he pulls people in like a magnet. But he’s been in prison for thirty years. He could be rusty — or, most likely, he’s already developed a very intricate plan, in all those years. He’s had more time than any of us, to prepare for this. Maybe he wants to change it as little as possible, and that is why he’s not including you yet.”

Hitler purses his lips. “Let’s hope it is just that.”

Marvolo cannot guarantee it, but he does anyway, just so he can get over with the meeting. After a month of fluent correspondence, their association had grown friendly, but since Grindelwald’s escape it had started to turn more and more tense. It’s frustrating. Marvolo knows how to pretend that everything is okay, and he knows how to treat those that are beneath him as if they weren’t, but he doesn’t like doing it, and every day it passes, treating Hitler like he’s important gets more difficult. Still, he’s not going to give up now. He didn’t spend years preparing this for all to go to hell so easily. He can’t. And if he must cast the Imperius course on both, Grindelwald and Hitler, he’ll do it.

That’s just his last resource, though. There are other things he can try before performing such irresponsible and desperate acts that can so easily go astray.

Back in England, where he’s the most comfortable, in a lair that is only his, where the only master, the one who anyone that enters must swear their loyalty to, it’s him; Tom Marvolo Riddle, who’s closer by the second to get the recognition he deserves. As he ordered, the building is never empty, and he almost laughs when he checks who’s currently guarding it. He’s certain that is the universe acknowledging him; helping him. Telling him that luck is in his favour. He calls her, one of his most promising followers, to his side.

“Can you do something for me, Bella?” he asks softly.

“Anything you want, my Lord,” she replies fast and true.

Marvolo smirks.

♠

** _Library, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 13 March 1936._ **

The announcement of the government’s reinforced persecution of Grindelwald’s followers is received with both, relief and alarm by the British population. There are many who consider it necessary and fair, but those that care to read between the lines are rightfully concerned by the way things are being implemented. Those critics, however, translate in controversy and even violent conflicts among civilians, whereas the Ministry receives little to no opposition. At least not openly, and very rarely by the press.

Hogwarts is, perhaps the one place in the UK where people feel mostly free to express their opinion with no consequences, and they do. Which, for the past week, has resulted in loud inter-house arguments in the Great Hall.

“What do you think?” asks Ginny in a whisper, to no one in particular. It is just the four of them in that part of the library, for they have a shared free period they’re using to get ahead on the longer and duller assignments. “Do you honestly believe these random interrogations will work?”

“Will they really be random?” asks Ron with a frown. “I mean, surely they will pick reasonable candidates…? I mean, they can’t just interrogate everyone in the country. That wouldn’t make sense!”

“They’ve got nothing,” replies Hermione softly. “No clue on what could be defined as suspicious behaviour. Hence, they’ll just interrogate everyone. And if questioning is the only criteria they can think of to reduce the poll of suspects, then who knows how accurate they will be.”

“Is that good or bad?” asks Harry.

“Bad. There are two options,” she raises her index finger, “either their questions will be too broad and innocent people will go through hell for no reason,” her middle finger joins the other, “or they will be too narrow, and real sympathizers may get away with it. And to be honest, if I were in their place I doubt I’d be any—”

She stops talking abruptly, and it takes Harry a moment to understand why. Once he does, he rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath, silently asking Merlin for patience.

“What are you three discussing that’s so secret?” asks Malfoy, followed closely by Crabbe and Goyle. “Are you concerned about the Grindelwald investigation? Don’t worry, the ministry is full of idiots and they’ve probably got no intention of checking blood traitors and muggle-borns, so you have nothing to fear.”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” yells Ron. “Everyone knows his lines of supporters are filled with pure-blood supremacists like your family!”

“Mister Weasley,” hisses Madam Pince, “may I remind you that we are in the library? If you talk again, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“But…!”

Harry covers Ron’s mouth with his hand and gives Madam Pince a sheepish smile. “We apologize, Madam, I promise it won’t happen again.”

She still glares at them as she walks off, but at least she doesn’t kick them out.

Malfoy chuckles under his breath and exchange smug, amused looks with his friends — if they can be called that.

“Come on, guys. If we stay here too long, Weasley will scream again and Madam Pince may kick us out as well.”

“She would be right to do so,” Harry hisses rightfully, his reduced volume somehow reinforcing his anger without making him look mad.

Malfoy glares at him, but he leaves, and they all quickly forget about the unpleasant interaction. Well, most of them. Harry doesn’t, not really, but apart from Hermione no one seems to notice, and she doesn’t ask. She never asks. Not since fourth year at least; not since the Yule Ball, and Harry couldn’t be more thankful for it. There has only been a handful of times he has considered bringing it up, but he’s backed off every time, and he thinks that’s for the best. Sometimes, the best course of actions is simply doing nothing, or so his mum says. His dad often disagrees, and so does Harry, but this has been the one issue he decided to apply his mum’s advice, and one could say it has worked, to some extent. Still, by the time they’re leaving the library about an hour later, his mind remains turbulent by a number of reasons. The Grindelwald situation is only getting worse, and he’s worried about his parents and their group. Hermione’s observations were very assertive, and he fears they’ll be unjustly affected by the government’s inefficiency.

Ron’s words also haunt him a little bit, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to admit why. And yet he hesitates, and his expression lightens with relief when he notices who’s on a different staircase reading two books at the same time somehow. He leans over the railing and only needs to call his name twice to get his attention.

“Professor Dumbledore,” says Harry with a smile once the man finally looks at him, “is there a chance I could stop by your office later tonight?” He asks upfront because the last three times he’s knocked on the office door, no one has answered.

“Oh, Harry,” his previously surprised features turn to apologetic, “I’m so sorry, but no. I’ve got something to do later today, I’m afraid. I won’t even eat dinner here.”

“Ah, I see,” Harry replies, trying not to show his disappointment.

Dumbledore is the one adult in Hogwarts that he feels comfortable enough to discuss that sort of thing. And not only that, but he really wants to hear what the professor has to say about it. But he _is _a busy man, a celebrity to some point, as well, and Harry can’t do much about it. He can only wait.

He’s just really bad at it, but maybe he’ll improve with all the practice he’s getting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter yet, I believe, but I had to cut it in half and considered this was the best part to do it.
> 
> The names of the made-up politicians are mostly combinations of known victims to witch trials with a tiny bit of cultural references to the countries they belong to.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Come find me in Tumblr @discretocincel if you want to chat!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ' m s o s o r r y
> 
> I'll do my best to post next chapter very soon!

** _Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 13 March 1936._ **

The palms of his hands tingle as he places his new case —one he bought for this exact purpose— on his bed. He feels like a rebellious teenager about to run away from home, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Albus is not a teenager, and he’s not running away. He’s simply taking some of his things and clothes to Paris because he spends most of his free time there. It’s only logical.

People all around him are stressed and frightened more often than not, but Albus hardly can stop smiling, even after he reads about the new actions that the international community has agreed on to deal with Gellert and his followers. He isn’t looking forward to the Custodians’ next meeting, of course, but he can’t be bothered by the knowledge that authorities are losing their minds. He doesn’t like the idea of innocent people being harassed by brutes with poor judgment, obviously, but he’s also confident they’re not going to succeed. Gellert is too smart for them. In the past, his followers were detained time and time again, but it meant nothing. If it hadn’t been for Albus, the authorities wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. And all in all, it could be interesting, what’s to come. In the next meeting of the Custodians they’ll probably discuss the government’s new tactics, which will be refreshing to say the least. Fawley is making it all too easy, really, to distract the group from their original goal of catching Gellert. If Albus plays his cards right, not only he’ll keep them far away from Gellert and his people, but they will also unknowingly help him.

But he needs to be patient. And thankfully, he’s good at that. Better than Gellert, at least, for when he arrives in Paris —right on time! — his dear is pacing the room looking aggravated, although his expression immediately relaxes once he sees him.

“There you are! I was afraid you were going to make us late!”

Albus tries to look offended, though it’s admittedly difficult after Gellert kisses him.

“This is the time we agreed on.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.”

Albus hums while he charms the clothes from his case into the drawers Gellert had cleaned up for him.

“We can organize all that later, you know? Just get whatever you’re wearing tonight and let’s start moving.”

“The French aren’t as punctual as us, you know that, right?” Still, he does as he’s told and simply picks out the garment he had carefully chosen, laying it out on the bed. He then takes the glass Gellert offers him and downs it quickly. He doesn’t wait for it to start acting to get dressed, and Gellert does the same.

They have time, but their plans for the night have them both on edge, excited and just a tiny bit concerned, and keeping their hands occupied is always good to defuse some of the tension, if only for the few moments they don’t think of it.

“I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this,” Albus mumbles, staring at his reflection and struggling to adjust the red tie that he normally would never wear. Not with his own hair, anyway.

Gellert stands behind him and smirks. “Well, start believing it, darling. We’re having dinner with the French Minister tonight.”

Albus giggles. “Yeah… Merlin, Gel, you are mad. What will you do if he starts complaining about _you_?”

Gellert drops a soft kiss on Albus’s cheek and meets his eye on the mirror. “I will admit I see some truth in his words, but I find his methods a little dangerous.”

“Moron.”

Gellert laughs under his breath, so near Albus’s skin that it tickles.

“Are you ready?”

Gellert nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

And hand in hand, they leave. They still have a little time, thus they don’t apparate on the Minister’s house right away, but on Magical Paris, where they check some stores and get a nice bottle of wine to offer their hosts. When they finally arrive at their home, they are just in time, and Anne Laure hurries downstairs after a minute or two, having just finished with her makeup, followed closely by her husband, looking apologetic, although whether that is for their tardiness or his wife’s voice, it is unclear. After some small talk in the parlour, they pass to the dining table where aperitives, ham slices and seasonal fruits that do not belong in March, are waiting for them. Everything is delicious, of course, but what’s really thrilling for Albus is the company — and not so much the politician across the table, but the man that’s holding his hand each time he has a chance, soul and voice to match, regardless of what he looks like. At times, he almost makes it difficult to focus on the conversation when he’s not the one talking, which drives him to actively search for a new subject every couple of minutes.

“You’re Catholic?” Albus asks, noticing the cross hanging from Anne Laure’s neck and deliberately ignoring the hand on his knee.

She nods. “My father was a muggle-born,” says Anne Laure, “and very religious. He was a brilliant wizard, too.”

“My mum was the same,” says Albus. “She was religious as well, but I must admit I skipped church for years,” he grins sheepishly, “although we went to mass last Sunday,” he turns to look at Gellert adoringly, “together.”

Gellert shrugs. “There’s a church very near our apartment. We moved there recently, you see. It brought him memories, and I was intrigued.”

Anne Laure chuckles. “You boys are so sweet. Maybe we should go next Sunday together. Jean Pierre never comes with me, though.”

He drops his fork on his plate and swallows hurriedly. “I went once! I went once, twenty years ago,” he passes wide, upset eyes over Gellert and Albus, “and I found it terribly concerning and confusing. Boring, too.”

“It can get a little long, I guess,” mutters Gellert.

“It was horrible!”

Anne Laure clicks her tongue and shakes her head at him, sending him a chastising look, but the jokes don’t end there. Minister Jean Pierre is a hilarious man, especially when he’s tipsy, and for as long as the wine keeps coming, so do his jokes. It is almost perplexing when he manages to maintain a serious conversation for a little while. Because, drunk or not, the man is clearly highly intelligent, and that’s just fine, because so are Cyneric and Antioch. All in all, the four have a wonderful evening and by the end of it, neither Jean Pierre nor Anne Laure want them to leave. Politics were carefully probed, but nothing too incriminating was discussed, and they are told they are expected for dinner again soon. It is not an empty cordiality. Anne Laure cannot stop complimenting them, and Jean Pierre is overtly interested in their opinions and appreciations, which they fully intend on giving to him, in due time.

“Tonight was fun, right?” Gellert asks once they’re back in his room.

“Tonight was a step in the right direction,” he smiles and cups Gellert’s face, “and yes, it was fun. We’ve got to do it again.”

“What?” he grins. “Have dinner undercover with the maximum authority of a foreign country which is looking for me? Yes, I often crave for that same level of danger to accompany my food.”

Albus rolls his eyes but fails to contain his laughter. They’re only half joking, and he knows it. Gellert always craved danger, and whereas Albus prior to meeting him only had thought he just wanted adventures and knowledge, he grew fond of the thrill that swept him off his feet each time they made their plans. He never thought he would be feeling that again in his fifties, but he’s never been happier to be caught by surprise.

As he changes for bed, still smiling, he looks around the room he’s so familiar with by now, and he knows Gellert wasn’t just talking about that. They won’t say it out loud, but he knows both of them think about it, perhaps more often than what’s advisable. With goals as large as theirs, distractions are dangerous. But it is inevitable to stop and enjoy the few glimpses they get of a life where they’re not hiding. Because when all it’s over, no matter the result, they’re still going to be Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald, practically living legends, and simple things such as walking around town, shopping, won’t be as easy as they were tonight.

“We’ll figure something out,” Gellert whispers in his ear, wrapping his arms around him from behind and dropping a kiss on his temple.

Albus cranes his neck awkwardly to meet those mismatched eyes that still take his breath away and says: “I know.”

He doesn’t say it is a small price to pay for the greater good, because it doesn’t feel that way. When it’s just the two of them, he turns selfish, and it’s as if reason and kindness leave him. How else could he put his own happiness at the same level as everyone else’s?

The first kiss only messes with his priorities further, but he still tangles his fingers in Gellert’s hair and pulls him closer. The second and third don’t do much better, but by the sixth they’re on their way to the bed, and all dark thoughts have left Albus’s mind, which was, of course Gellert’s intention.

And Albus could never complain, not about his intentions, and certainly not about his methods.

♠

** _Paris, France. 14 March 1936._ **

“I love the way you talk,” says the girl, staring at her as if she’d just done something incredible, instead of simply ordering their food.

Vinda smiles, because she cannot help it. She wants to tell her she’s being ridiculous, but she can’t look at her face and risk upsetting her. Her throat closes.

“What did you order?”

“Just coffee and chocolate bread. You told me you liked them.”

Queenie nods enthusiastically. “I do, yes.” She grabs Vinda’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you.”

Vinda is not an idiot. She knows the girl is in love with her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend or whatever. But she also knows that she’s one of the few expert Occlumens the girl has ever met, which understandably fascinates her, and that she greatly enjoys her company.

And Vinda, for some reason, enjoys her company as well. Besides, she has always liked having pretty girls hanging on to her every word.

“How long are you planning on staying?”

Queenie shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. Here they haven’t even interrogated me, but I have a feeling if I go back to America they will. And I don’t want to go back to England.” She frowns, and she looks even prettier. “Not yet, at least.”

“Well, you are welcome to stay here with us for however long you wish to stay.”

“You are so kind.” Her bright beam is back, and Vinda doesn’t mind. “I’m afraid I won’t ever leave. I love it here.”

“That is okay as well.” She means it. The girl is a great addition to their members. “But don’t worry about it. Take it one day at a time. But if you’re still here on Tuesday, there’s something I’d like your help with.”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Vinda’s cheeks are growing numb with how much she’s smiling in the cold, but she doesn’t mind. It’s early, and she intends to spend her time with Queenie until the afternoon’s meeting, just so she doesn’t have to think about it too much. What was once the highlight of her days is slowly turning into a source of stress and frustration because of Carrow’s attitude, without mentioning that the reality of the next step of Gellert’s plans is starting to kick in. She believes in him. She believes he must be right — he always is, but she still worries. And she sees her concern mirrored in the faces of Nagel and Krafft and all that does is strengthen her conviction that it is not their place to doubt him.

When she was a child, she’d believed that all witches and wizards were special; that the magic in them made them special. But as she grew, she realized that most of the time, magic wasn’t enough to make a person interesting, let alone _special_. By the time she graduated from Beauxbatons, she hadn’t met a single person that was truly special.

Until that night in Paris, when she met Gellert.

She met him at a time in her life where the conflict of her responsibilities, her wishes and her family’s expectations were about to overwhelm her; at a time in which her first love had left her to marry the wizard her parents had wanted Vinda to marry; at a time in which she had believed every single person in the world to be mediocre and ill-intentioned. But there he was, bright and angry and controversially beautiful, with his ideas and his knowledge and a certain magnetism that just pulled everyone closer, even her at a time in her life when she would get out of her way to avoid all men. He was otherworldly, and none of those who circled him and unconsciously made the decision to follow him to the grave right then and there ever entertained the idea of being on the same level. After so long, it is still extremely odd for her to think of him as just ‘Gellert’, because he’s always been more than that. He still is. She may be more conscious of his mortality now that they all have more experience, but his mind transcends the vulnerability of that body that remains to this day the perfect, translucent vessel for all that brightness that’s inside of it. In theory, he’s just a human being that can make mistakes, but practice has proved otherwise.

To a lesser extent, Queenie is a special person, too.

She’s not as brilliant —Vinda is certain that simply no one is— but she shines nonetheless, and she eases some of the worries away when it’s just the two of them. Outstandingly, Vinda wants to be around her just to enjoy the warm of her smile, and nothing more. Her willingness to support their cause is just a bonus. Queenie is just a girl. Regardless of her age, there’s an air of innocence around her, goodness and sweetness and all those nice qualities women like Vinda never had. She’s just a girl, a girl who is also a natural legilimens and is growing interested in their cause. A special girl who is in love with a man — with a muggle, and one day will go back to England and probably will rarely remember Vinda, but she doesn’t mind. What the future may make of their association is meaningless. Vinda believes in enjoying the present, and she does just that until the very last minute, when they say goodbye just outside the study. She’s not the first one to arrive, but she isn’t the last one either, and she manages to keep a straight, bored expression even as her eyes meet with Carrow’s.

“Ah, there you are!” says Krafft, seemingly relieved to see her. “Can you please tell this woman that she’s completely out of her mind?”

She arches one eyebrow. Most people would agree, no matter the circumstances, but they rarely feel the need to point it out. “You are completely out of your mind,” she says nonchalantly.

Carrow, sitting on the armrest of a chair, throws her hands in the air and rolls her eyes. “He’s too stubborn! There’s some truth to what I said, and you know it. You just don’t want to admit it, Krafft.”

“False! Lies! Calumnies!”

“Krafft, calm down,” Vinda mutters, unamused, and tempted to wait for Gellert outside. The meeting will start the moment he enters the room, after all.

“She thinks we should listen to Marvolo!”

“What?!” she shouts, her blood suddenly boiling.

“I’m just saying,” Carrow shrugs one shoulder and looks away, “his muggle minion has proved to be useful.”

Vinda narrows her eyes. “Barely.”

“Don’t you think that we could at least _consider_—?”

“No!” Vinda interrupts her. “No, Carrow, we can’t even _consider_ it. You’ve got to remember what Lord Grindelwald told us. Hitler is a threat to the world, and we can’t side with him just because he may help us. We can’t. Our Lord won’t have it. And if you’re not willing to follow his orders, then maybe you shouldn’t come to these meetings.”

“If Lord Grindelwald asks me to, I’ll stop coming. But I don’t believe I should. I am loyal to him. I just think that maybe there is some merit to Marvolo’s ideas.”

“You don’t seriously believe that. You just want to antagonize me.”

Carrow huffs and stands up abruptly. “Don’t be so full of yourself, Rosier.”

“Me? Now that’s rich, coming from the most self-centred, haughty person in this room! If I remember properly, I am not the one that’s been overtly flirting with every single witch that approached us after the rallies, in muggle places, where that’s illegal!”

“Please! I was simply being, what is it that you call it, each time you recruit? You know, the thing you do when you’re with that blondie…”

“Melia, Vinda, knock it off,” says Lord Grindelwald with disinterest, just entering the room with a sympathetic looking Nagel by his side. “Let’s focus on the matter at hand now, please.”

“Yes, sir,” both Krafft and Carrow say, turning their attention to him.

“Sure!” says MacDuff, jumping from his seat in the windowsill and draping himself on the armrest of the sofa. “Can we talk about that little excursion you want to do?”

A small, amused smile appears on Gellert’s face, and he says: “Yes. I’ll go in late April, after one more rally.”

“You still believe you must go alone, sir?” asks Krafft, brow furrowed.

“Yes,” he nods. “Absolutely.” He passes his eyes over each of them and purses his lips. “I’ve been in touch with more than one trustful acolyte from towns I’m interested in visiting, and I’ll contact them when the time is right. If I go there with some of you, we’ll be tourists. I can’t present myself as an outsider. But I won’t do anything that could put everything we’ve worked so hard for in jeopardy, so please, all of you, be reassured that this is the right choice.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of doubting you, sir,” says Carrow.

Vinda wants to hex her, but she doesn’t. She manages to stop herself all throughout the meeting, and by the time Carrow’s finally gone, Vinda believes she deserves a prize.

“Come on,” says MacDuff, passing an arm around her shoulders, “let’s get you a drink. You’ve earned it.”

She can’t disagree, so she follows him blindly, in silence, ignoring whatever he’s babbling about while she can. Once they’re inside his quarters, she waits in the small couch he has by the window. It is dark outside, and he has no view whatsoever, but the empty alleyway reminds her of more pleasant times, and she smiles. It is short-lived. He sits down on the floor right in front of her, with his legs crossed, and hands her a glass with… something on it. She doesn’t recognize it, but the scent of alcohol is strong, and that’s exactly what she needs.

“You know why she’s mad,” says MacDuff, just as she’s taking a long sip of her drink.

Vinda frowns. The taste is foul, yet addictive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

MacDuff rolls his eyes. “She’s _jealous_.”

Vinda grabs the front of his shirt with her free hand and pulls him up with a furious look. “Shut up,” she hisses. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

“But I do understand,” he replies, relaxed even as he reaches for the edge of the couch to stabilize himself. “There’s no need of romance to open the door to possessiveness. You may think it was casual, but Carrow is a little out of her mind. You must know that. I mean, _I _know that, but maybe that’s just because I’m a little out of my mind myself.”

She sighs and lets him go, feeling suddenly exhausted. Leaning back, she plays with her glass a little bit, hesitant. “Yeah, you are. You both are. I was stupid, I know that now.”

MacDuff pats her knee. “Don’t worry, no one can blame you for shagging. We all have got our needs. In fact, I think Lord Grindelwald himself has found some plaything now.”

Vinda chokes on her drink. It takes her a minute to control her coughing fit, and then she says, still red-faced: “What makes you think that?”

MacDuff shrugs. “I just do. He’s happy and distracted. He stays in his bedroom more, too.”

At least the last part is true, and she herself had noticed it. Still, the notion is too surreal.

He refills her glass and says: “I know, it’s weird to imagine. Even back then, when he was a brat, it was as if no one could touch him. He’s like, on another level. But,” he takes a sip of his own drink, “he’s still human. He can relieve his stress however he wants to.”

“Don’t be gross.”

He laughs. “You just say that because you don’t like dick. I don’t like dick either, but to be honest, I can’t blame anyone interested in our Lord. He’s bloody gorgeous.”

She chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. Sometimes she forgets why she likes the company of those out of their minds so much, but MacDuff always reminds her. She raises her glass and clashes it with his. “Now that’s a fact.”

Talking, they drink till sunrise.

♠

** _Great Hall, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 15 March 1936._ **

After the negative on Friday, Harry spends most of Saturday on the watch for the elusive professor. He goes to his office before breakfast, but there’s no answer, and he doesn’t see the man on the great hall either, but that doesn’t stop him from stopping by his office at different times during the rest of the day. Still, he gets no answer, and all seems to indicate the professor is not even on school grounds. It’s slightly disappointing, but he goes to bed ready to try again the next day. His enthusiasm seems to abandon him on his sleep though, because along with the clouds and mist that cover any view from his window, before he gets dressed, he already knows he’s not going to find the professor no matter how hard he tries.

By lunchtime on Sunday, he simply stares gloomily at the teachers’ table every few minutes, where professor Dumbledore’s usual spot is empty. It is not odd that the people around him shortly take notice of his unusual mood.

“Is something wrong, Harry?” asks Ginny.

He shrugs one shoulder and tries to smile reassuringly, but he knows his effort is weak. “No, don’t worry. I just wanted to see if I could speak with Professor Dumbledore today, but it seems like he won’t eat here. Again.”

“Oh, you’re right. Yesterday he didn’t come to eat here either!” mumbles Neville around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Ah, there’s a simple reason for that!” says Seamus grinning smugly. “He’s in the honeymoon phase!”

Harry just stares at him for a moment, too stunned to come up with a conclusion that makes sense. He’s almost positive he heard wrong. “What?” he asks.

Dean, by Seamus’s side, giggles. After a moment he explains: “Dumbledore. A bunch of students saw him on a date in Hogsmeade after Valentine’s day, just a month ago. His relationship must still be new and exciting, and he probably spends most of his free time with the guy.”

“It was a guy?” mumbles Ron, looking so baffled that it is borderline rude, and Hermione slaps his thigh under the table to keep him quiet.

“I had no idea,” says Harry with a small frown, “but I guess it makes sense. He has been happier lately.”

Hermione nods. “That’s true.”

“Yeah,” agrees Seamus, while Dean nods along. “You can’t blame a guy for wanting to shag. So long as he doesn’t miss his lessons, he can leave the castle as often as he wants.”

“Ugh, please, stop. It’s so weird to think of a professor like that,” says Ron.

“Why?” Ginny frowns. “They’re only human. Besides, if anyone on that table is in real condition to jump in a relationship, I’d believe that’s Professor Dumbledore.”

“Why?” asks Neville, who looks genuinely clueless, and Harry represses a smile.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Because he’s insanely hot? And he has a great personality?”

“I can’t really tell that kind of thing with guys,” admits Neville, shrugging one shoulder self-consciously.

Harry doesn’t believe one needs to be sexually attracted to their gender to recognize the beauty in a person. Hell, they can be the most insufferable people on the planet, but their physical appearance can still be appreciated without any sexual interest. The proof should be people who catalogue the good looks of criminals, although that’s more of a muggle thing, he knows. He’s heard of wizards and witches complimenting Grindelwald’s good looks, though, so there’s that. Just for a moment he wonders what it had been for Dumbledore, back when he was younger. Did his good looks influence him somehow? Well, at least they shouldn’t now, not if he’s dating someone else. He smiles. He’s really happy for the professor, maybe even happier than he’d been for Ron and Hermione.

♠

** _London, England. Early morning of 18 March 1936._ **

After the announcement of a stronger search for any sympathizers of Grindelwald, most people in London had been intrigued. Some were worried, others happy, but the general atmosphere was one of cautious curiosity on how the authorities would go about it.

Not ten days after said announcement, that curiosity is gone, replaced by fear. Rumours about what went on the infamous interrogations spread like Fiendfyre, and they made everyone nervous, fairly so. There were some sceptics, but the testimonies recounting extreme use of force and ambiguous questions were too many to ignore.

Newton Scamander tries nevertheless until he experiments it on the flesh one Tuesday late in the afternoon. That he’d been expecting. After all, his poorly timed visit to Hungary around Grindelwald’s second rally was easily incriminating, and he goes willingly when Aurors ask him to go with them. He is as cooperative as he can be, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His disposition doesn’t alter the procedure of the interrogations in the slightest. He answers all their questions honestly, but they still use excessive force on him and throw veritaserum down his throat after six hours of what’s only short of physical and psychological torture.

Still, what impacts him the most is that, even after all that, the interrogation doesn’t end, which can only mean that the truth doesn’t matter. The same questions are back, but they’re slightly different. Their intonation, the names they drop along the strength of the stripes around his wrists and ankles clearly have got an ulterior motive that his fogged mind cannot figure out. He’s even more confused when it stops, because he’s certain he did nothing to prompt it, and although he recognizes his brother’s voice, he doesn’t put two and two together until they’re alone in his office, and his brother is wrapping Newt’s hands around a warm cup.

“Come on, Newt, drink that for me, okay?”

He does. His arms are heavy, and his throat burns when the bitter liquid goes down, but the ringing in his ears abruptly stops, and his vision stops being all blurry, little by little. “This is horrible,” he points at the cup.

Theseus smiles. “It tastes like coffee.”

“I hate coffee.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Newt sighs and leans back in the soft chair. Everything hurts. “Theseus,” he says, “that, that interrogation was just awful. How can you support such a procedure? Who approved it? Who _designed _it?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I don’t support it, Newt. I really don’t. But what else do you suggest we do? Because I’m out of ideas, and I’ve got a job to do, orders to follow.”

“This procedure is oppressive and aggressive. Besides, innocent people are being targeted. You’ve got to see it. You’ve got to see that Fawley is using this to go against his political enemies.”

“I know, I am not an idiot, Newt! But there’s nothing I can do! I couldn’t even stop them from interrogating you! You think I didn’t try?”

“Well, you shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Don’t say that. That’s not fair, Newt. That’s not fair and you know it.”

Newt raises his head to really look at his brother for a moment, and what he sees there, the vulnerability and the _fear_… chase off all his anger. He scratches his temple with a finger and then awkwardly pats his brother’s arm. “Thank you, for trying anyway.”

“No need to thank me.”

“They don’t care about the truth, you know?”

“What?”

“I told them I would take veritaserum as soon as I was in custody, and they didn’t care. They attacked me for hours and in the end still gave me the veritaserum. They could’ve started with that, but they didn’t. And after they repeated all their questions, and they could confirm that I had been saying the truth all along… they still didn’t care.” He keeps his gaze fixed on the carpet, inspecting the simple pattern and categorizing the weary spots, but he knows what face his brother must be making, while staring at him. “It’s true. They just want guilty people. And I believe that if you hadn’t gotten in, if you hadn’t interrupted it, they would’ve kept insisting until I confessed something untrue just to stop it. No matter how long it took. Also…”

“Merlin, there’s more?”

Newt smiles. “Sadly, yes. They kept asking about other people, as if they wanted me to involve them. And not any people.”

Theseus’s sharp intake of breath tells Newt he already figured it out. He’s a great Auror, after all. Newt nods.

“I know there isn’t much you can do about it, but…”

Theseus grabs his shoulder and squeezes. “At least I’ll be paying attention. I don’t know about the Minister, but I want to believe that my boss has some integrity, and that whoever is behind it can be caught and brought to justice. Thanks for telling me, Newt.”

“No need to thank me.”

Theseus snorts. “Come on, let’s get you home to your wife and kid. They’re worried sick about you.”

“At this hour? Rolf must be asleep.”

Newt doesn’t see it, but his brother rolls his eyes at that. The smile on his face is fond, though, and it is still there by the time they arrive at Newt’s house. He nods his head at Tina and leaves right away. It’s late; his own family is waiting for him. And he knows they like best to talk alone.

“Are you okay?” Tina asks, voice wobbly and face wrinkled with concern

“I’m fine. I just…” he shakes his head as he makes his way to the living room and sits on his favourite chair, “I’m fine. They were brutes, but they let me go, and I proved my innocence. You? I’m sorry I couldn’t join you for dinner.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles and sits across from him, subtly searching his body for marks or injuries, inspecting the way he favours one side over the other. “I saw Remus again.”

“Oh, how is he?” Newt had been delighted to find such a respectable ear thirsty for his knowledge of the very real problem that is the trafficking of magical creatures, and he’d quickly grown fond of the novelist.

Tina believes it is unlikely there’s anything new she could tell her husband about the man that could interest him. They’ve only known each other for ten days, but they’ve already exchanged over thirty letters. Besides, she wants to hear about _his_ afternoon. Still, she says: “He’s fine. We talked mostly about the Custodians, you know.”

Newt frowns. “Did you discuss the ministry’s new interrogations?”

She tilts her head to the right, watching him closely. There’s something in the way his lips tremble, but it’s the only indicator that he’s off. It’s infuriating. She would prefer her yelled, but she knows he won’t do that. “We commented it, yes,” she purses her lips. “Just that we think it’s extreme and badly executed, but what else are they supposed to do? They’ve got nothing to work on.”

“I spoke with Theseus before coming home, after they let me go.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Basically, that his hands are tied. He knows it’s wrong, but it is the one thing they’re doing to fight Grindelwald.” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t think we’re going to win this way, Tina.”

“That’s why I joined the Custodians.”

Newt shakes his head. “And you think the Custodians have got a better chance than entire governments?”

She frowns. “What are you saying?”

“Just an idea: maybe fighting a war on the side you know it’s going to lose isn’t such a good plan.”

“So what, we just don’t fight? That’s not how life works, Newt!”

He takes a deep breath and fidgets with the buttons on his sleeve. “There’s another thing. About my interrogation. They kept trying to get me to involve Mr. Spencer-Moon, Professor Dumbledore, and other politicians of the opposition. I don’t believe Fawley is unaware of that.”

“Ah, fuck,” she sighs, rubbing her face with a hand. “Damn it, Newt…” she bites her bottom lip and leaves her chair to sit on the arm rest of Newt’s. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“I told Theseus about that, too.”

“And?”

He shakes his head. “He’s going to pay close attention, to help the poor victims and to see if the person ordering it all can be brought to justice. He wants to believe it isn’t Travers, that he’s got some integrity. But I disagree.”

Tina giggles. “Yeah, me too.”

He grabs her hand and kisses it. Then stands up. “I’m really tired, Tina. I’ll go to bed now.”

“I’m right behind you,” she says, even though there’s no need to. Just like he doesn’t say he’ll stop by Rolf’s room first, because she knows he will. In a house with the number of creatures they have, unpredictability is their routine, and there are few counted exceptions, the things that stay the same no matter what. One of those are the goodnight kisses. Another is that they always go to bed together, and it no longer is just to make sure Tina doesn’t end trapped somewhere, but just because that’s the way they like to do things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it took so long, but to be honest, it was all the dinner’s fault. Blame Anne Laure. Or better don’t, she’s a sweetheart.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, two chapters in a week? I'm on fire! (no I'm not. I've got so much shit to do and I've mastered the art of procrastination.)

** _130a Diagon Alley, London, England. 18 March 1936._ **

“Good morning Britain, this is your host, Kevinus Morrisons, and I’m here with three great wizards to talk about the current situation of our nation and, if you let us be so daring, the rest of the world. Hello and welcome, sirs. I’m sure all three of you have got many interesting things to say; first to my right we’ve got Sir Faris Spavin, who needs no introduction, I’m sure—”

“Well, let’s hope the young in your audience did well in history,” interrupts the man in question with an amicable grin, “I retired thirty years ago!”

“Yes, but you were our Minister for Magic for even longer,” replies the radio host, smiling as well. “Next to you is the honourable judge of the Council of Magical Law, Bartemius Crouch, and on his right is outstanding member of the Winzengamot, Lord Lucius Malfoy.”

“Now, that’s a marvellous introduction,” Spavin comments, winking an eye at Lord Malfoy and getting a forced smile in return.

“Let’s get on with the social commentary, shall we?” says Crouch. “That’s what brings us all here.”

Kevinus nods and clears his throat. “Very well. I imagine all three of you have heard what people are saying on the streets, about the interrogations to identify the sympathizers of Grindelwald. How they’re supposedly using excessive force, and how they’re being way too vague in their questioning, keeping innocent people behind bars for far longer than necessary.”

“Oh, yes,” Faris nods, and his glasses slip down his nose to a point where everyone around him is sure they’re going to fall, “they’re more than suppositions, dear Morrisons. There are testimonies backed by physical evidence that prove how long people are being detained, and it’s excessive in almost every case. Without mentioning the methods of questioning, which sound like they were taken straight out of a muggle horror movie.”

“It is scandalous,” adds Crouch, “for example, how long Mister Spencer-Moon has been in custody. He was taken for questioning over three days ago, in the middle of the night, disturbing his entire family, and he’s still locked, without a logical reason behind it. I believe Minister Fawley needs to be made accountable for his actions.”

“I completely agree,” says Lord Malfoy. “Not only is Hector Fawley incompetent, he is also using the situation for his own political gain, and that cannot be ignored!”

Spavin nods. “It certainly looks like that’s what he’s doing.”

“Do you doubt he is, sir?” asks Kevinus.

At 180 years old, Faris Spavin is still one of the most respected and well-liked politicians of Great Britain. Out of the three guests, his opinion is the one people care about the most, and if anyone can convince the people of something, that’s him.

He grimaces. “I believe one can never know for sure, with these things. Not without a proper investigation. It may be irresponsible to say he planned anything. What’s a fact is that he would be benefitted if Mr. Spencer-Moon had some trouble with the law and was either forced or led to step outside politics. It is no secret that he’s a favourite of the public and the most likely to become Minister in the next election. And Fawley didn’t get to where he is right now on mere luck. He was voted, he earned the people’s trust. I voted for him. And I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, yes.”

“You were in office the first time Grindelwald was caught,” Kevinus remembers. “Have you got any advice you wish to give Mister Fawley?”

“Oh, well,” he licks his lips and narrows his eyes, “I believe he ought to listen more.” The other guests nod in agreement. “He’s coming across as a stubborn, prideful man, and that cannot be good for his reputation — nor for this nation, if that is his real character. Men like Grindelwald cannot be underestimated. Besides, we can’t know what his planning. No one is going to think less of him for taking in consideration what others may think. That’s what a good leader does.”

♠

** _Not far from there. Same time._ **

“I hope Fawley is listening,” says Remus, bringing a tray with recently baked biscuits to the table and sitting down across from her. “Everything Spavin just said is true.”

Tina nods as she grabs a biscuit and puts it in her plate, but she doesn’t eat it. Her mind seems to be elsewhere.

“How is he?” Remus asks after turning down the volume of the radio with a flick of his wand.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Full of bruises. And he works with huge creatures that get scared and bite him sometimes, so it’s not like I’ve never seen him injured before. But this is something else.”

“Of course it is.”

“He reminds me of some of the creatures he’s rescued, after they’ve been through hell. When they don’t let anyone near them. He’s jumpy, and he barely sleeps. He doesn’t want Rolf to step outside…” she licks her lips, “he wants to leave the island.”

“Well, it’s understandable, all things considered.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But you’re not going to leave, are you?”

She shakes her head. “I’m hoping he just needs to rest some more. I’m not opposed to going away for a while — or even permanently, I already did that once, you know. I can do it again, we’ll manage somehow. But I’m not sure that’s what he needs right now. Besides…” she bites her bottom lip, “there’s another reason I don’t want to leave our house at the moment. But it’s a delicate one.”

Remus frowns. “Can you tell me?”

She grabs the biscuit on her plate and eats it in three huge bites on a display that shocks him. Once she’s done, there are some crumbs on the corner of her lips, but after a long gulp of water and a rub of the back of her hand —completely ignoring the napkin in front of her—, she looks almost as if the last two minutes never happened. Then, she says: “My sister had been in Westminster at the time of Grindelwald’s first rally, by coincidence, of course. She… she was very impressed by it, and that concerns me. Her situation is… delicate.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“She is in love with a muggle.”

“Oh.”

“Can I tell you a secret, Remus? Would you promise not to tell anyone?”

Remus wants to put some conditions, first, for he’s not going to keep a secret that may endanger people, but he sees something on Tina’s face that simply convinces him. He nods. “I promise.”

“He knows. The muggle. It was an accident, and she wasn’t the one to tell him. He met Newt in New York and somehow their cases got mixed and he took a bunch of magical creatures home. Everything was fixed, and we even thought we had obliviated him, but… it didn’t work. And they’re so in love, Mr. Lupin, that I didn’t have the heart to try a second time. Jacob, he’s a good friend of all of us.”

“I understand,” he says.

“After the rally, she was, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. We started to argue a lot and… I haven’t seen her in almost three weeks.”

“You haven’t seen her?”

Tina shakes her head. “At first I thought she had gone back to America, but I’ve been talking to some of our friends there, and they haven’t seen her. I almost don’t want to leave the house, in case she’ll return.”

“Of course.” He grabs a biscuit, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He hasn’t got any siblings; the closest example he has is Sirius, and that’s, well, not precisely a standard example. He can’t come close to imagine what Tina must be going through, but at least he can listen. She seems to find that useful, but he cannot shake off the sensation that he should’ve done more. After she leaves, he tries to write — he’s already behind schedule, but, as often lately, he just can’t focus. He tries taking his notes out of his office and into the living room, but it doesn’t help at all. By the time his husband gets back home, he’s still sitting there, and he hasn’t managed to write more than twenty words.

Sirius takes one look at him after kissing him hello and leaves without another word. In minutes, he’s back with a mug of hot chocolate in each hand and a plate with sandwiches floating in front of him.

They eat on the couch, and Remus barely has to say a thing while Padfoot tells him all about his day — sparing him the ugly details, of course. And Remus eats slowly, because he knows that as soon as his mouth is free, he will be expected to talk, and put into words whatever is on his mind, but he doesn’t know what is in his mind. He just wants to lie down; he’s tired. Almost as tired as he’d been the week before, after the full moon.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Sirius asks.

“What?”

“To bed. Come on, leave your mug on the table, I’ll take care of it later.”

“No, I’m fine, I…”

“Just do it, Moony. You’re practically asleep already.”

He only hesitates another second for show, and then smiles content as he wraps his arms around his husband’s neck to be carried. He knows there was a time he hated that, but he can hardly understand how he was so foolish. He never feels safer than when he’s tight in Sirius’s arms. It’s not even ten pm, he knows, but by the time Sirius pulls the covers over him, he’s almost asleep. He stops him from leaving, though, and says with his eyes closed:

“Tina was here after lunchtime.”

“Oh,” Sirius sounds surprised, and Remus needs to see his face, “how is she?” He sits by Remus’s feet. “Her husband? I know she wrote it all down so we can discuss it in a meeting later, but… well,” he scratches the back of his head and smiles sheepishly. “What did she tell you?”

“He’s… very affected, obviously.”

Sirius snorts. “Obviously. We’ve received many of the people that’s been questioned, but only after they made us sign contracts of confidentiality. Since they didn’t need to bring him to the hospital, it looks like his brother got on time before things got really ugly.”

“Sirius, that’s horrible.”

“I know.” He knows all he can do is treat their injuries, but he wants to do more. Everyone who cares for them in St. Mungo’s want to do more. The damage people arrive with after being interrogated by the Aurors is insane, and the authorities are aware, but they don’t care, which only makes it all worse. But as a healer, he cannot stop people from getting hurt, he can only treat them after it’s happened. As a member of the Custodians, he hopes he can make a difference.

He watches Remus sleep until it’s time to leave for the meeting.

♠

** _Exeter, Devon, England. Forty minutes later._ **

Nearly twenty-six hours after Newt Scamander was brought into custody by the Aurors, the inner group of the Custodians finally meet to discuss the situation that was described to them by their active member, Porpentina Scamander. It’s just Sirius and James at the beginning, which many will agree on that’s often bad news to whoever has gotten on their bad side. The silence that follows the arrival of both Lily and Alastor Moody can only further confirm that. In the kitchen of the small building that looks like an old closed muggle store on the outside, the four of them sit and begin talking, not bothering to wait for the fifth guest of the evening to discuss the general situation of their country, as opposed to what forced the group to be created in the first place.

“What they’re doing is overt political persecution,” says James. “Even guys like Malfoy are saying so!”

“Yes,” admits Alastor, “but there’s very little we can do about it now, so calm down.”

“Calm down? I don’t need to calm down. I’m calm!”

Lily places heavily a glass with butterbeer in front of him and squeezes his shoulder in a gesture that’s both tender and a warning.

James takes a deep breath first, and a long gulp of butterbeer second. “Spencer-Moon is Fawley’s main political opponent. Sure, he lives in London, but he’s further from Westminster than us,” he points at Lily and himself, “and he was interrogated twice last year. Not only that, but he’s been kept in custody longer than most people. He’s _still_ in custody. And do you honestly think the guy supports Grindelwald?”

“I don’t know,” says Alastor. “I’ve never spoken with the man.” He rubs his forehead with the tip of his fingers and sighs. “But I know Travers. He’s not an idiot. And he’s uncomfortable with his orders.”

Lily frowns. “He told you that?”

Alastor shakes his head. “No. No, he’s never going to admit it out loud. But I can see it in the way his mouth curves when he’s talking to his subordinates, and in the way he needs a moment to breath before and after meetings with Fawley.”

“Yeah, well, what good does that? It doesn’t matter he’s uncomfortable if he’s still going to do everything he’s told. Sometimes, our orders are wrong. That’s when we use our criteria and so something about it.”

“Travers is not the man to do that, Potter.”

“Then it comes to us!”

“No, it doesn’t! We’re supposed to be looking for Grindelwald, not make our government accountable for whatever stupidity they do!”

“We should, when that so-called stupidity is hurting people!”

The sound of the entrance door opening and closing makes them turn, and they’re both relieved by the sight of the man who just arrived, if only for slightly different reasons.

“Professor Dumbledore, it is so good to see you!” says James. He then gestures at Moody. “Can you tell him that we _must _do something about these interrogations?”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows. “What do you suggest we do?”

James opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Dumbledore sighs and pats him on the back on his way to the counter, where he starts to make tea. “I agree with, I suppose, everyone here about these measures being excessive and poorly executed, but there’s very little we can do. Especially when we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

“Yes, but it hardly feels that way, does it?”

“Be careful with what you say, Potter,” Alastor growls.

“They’re trying to involve you as well, Professor,” says Lily calmly.

The professor stops stirring his cup, and slowly raises his head to meet her eye.

“They’re just mad because you’re not helping them,” says Alastor. He then whispers into his flask, before taking a long sip of his drink: “Arseholes.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get probable cause at some point and get you,” replies Sirius. “I mean, they’re interrogating _everyone_. When they finally come to interrogate you, they won’t let you go. Just like they’re doing with Spencer-Moon.”

“That’s right,” James agrees, nodding along. “We’ve got to do something…”

“We can’t do anything,” Dumbledore argues calmly. He then places his cup back on the counter and just breathes, while everyone around simply waits, frozen, for him to elaborate. And he does. “Meeting like this currently may not be illegal, but we’ve already done more than that, infiltrating Grindelwald’s files of followers. If on top of that, we do anything directly against government officials or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, we’ll be committing treason. Not only that, but we’ll only be contributing to Fawley’s paranoia, because he _will _notice that an organized group is going against him. That will only distract him from the real danger, which is Grindelwald, and they’ll make our job harder as well.”

“Exactly!” exclaims Alastor loudly. “We can’t divide our attention either!”

He’s the only one that looks convinced, apart from Dumbledore. But the discussion changes its course after that, and all possibility of interfering with the interrogations as a group seems to be buried.

But Sirius and James don’t make eye contact for the rest of the meeting, and neither Lily nor the professor miss that curious detail.

♠

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. Four hours later._ **

At the beginning of March, Albus still made sure to go back into Hogwarts after every meeting with the Custodians before leaving for Paris, but not anymore. He still Disapparates to Hogsmeade from wherever they gathered, but he no longer feels the need to make the long walk back to his bedroom in the castle. And if he’s honest, he thinks that’s because that bedroom no longer feels like it’s his. Or at least, it no longer feels like home. Home is where he gets later, which contains a handsome man sitting by the window revising some parchments with a floating glass of water nearby, and another waiting for Albus on the nightstand by his side of the bed.

On his nightstand, with his spare glasses and the books he’s currently reading, and the last edition of _Transfiguration_ _Today_. His nightstand at Hogwarts is practically empty nowadays.

“Hello.”

Gellert immediately drops his parchments, taken aback, and not by Albus’s presence, but for whatever he can see on his face. Albus doesn’t care, and he doesn’t try to act like nothing’s wrong.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What happened in your meeting?”

Albus licks his lips. “Many things. But mostly… well, at the beginning, we discussed the interrogations. The husband of a member was interrogated yesterday, I told you, right?”

Gellert nods. “Yes, you did.”

“Well, he told us… he told us very serious things. Apparently, they’re trying to force people to admit things that aren’t necessarily true, through torture. And they’re trying to get people to confess, among other things, _my_ involvement.”

Gellert frowns. “By lying? They’re forcing them to lie about _you_?”

Albus nods. “They’re torturing civilians, Gel. And I genuinely don’t know how it can be stopped. When _The Quibbler _tried to publish an article about it, they destroyed all the evidence, and they arrested the editor in chief and the one who wrote the article.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I hate to think that people are enduring torture because of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re enduring torture because the authorities of your country are insane. You’ve got no responsibility.” He watches Albus for a moment before going to sit by his side. “But we’ll fix it. I promise.”

“How?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve got an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

Albus’s entire face wrinkles in a grimace. “Try to be more specific. Will I dislike it, or will I hate it?”

“Something in between, I believe.”

Albus sighs heavily. “I’ll hate it.”

“Yes, that’s highly probable,” Gellert admits, massaging the back of Albus’s neck with a hand in a calming manner. “But I can promise you that only one person will get hurt, and it’ll be willingly and knowingly.”

“Gel…”

Gellert hushes him before pressing their lips together softly. “Worrying will only make you suffer twice,” he whispers, his free hand unfastening Albus’s robes.

He almost wants to complain, but his hands get lost on the way and instead of stopping him, they tangle on Gellert’s hair and pull him closer. His mind goes blank for an instant in which Gellert’s heat seems to engulf him, shoving troubles and even their surroundings completely out of his attention, until a loud chirp startles him back into the real world, and gasping, he pushes Gellert away, accidentally throwing him off the bed. His betrayed and utterly outraged expression almost makes Albus laugh out loud, but he manages to swallow it down, and says: “I don’t mind you feeding my bird and calling him at unusual hours, but I draw the line at him being in the room while we’re having sex.”

Gellert rolls his eyes and sighs, kneading his right thigh, the one he’d fallen on, as he stands up. “Come on, Fawkes, you’ve got to go.”

If a bird can look offended, then that’s what Fawkes looks like, first staring at Gellert and then turning to face Albus. He shrugs and cannot hold in his laughter this time when the bird replies with a loud cry that can only be described as a display of desolate, borderline hysteric disappointment as he’s collected and carried out of the room.

“Merlin, he’s almost as dramatic as you are,” Albus mumbles with amusement tainting his voice.

Fawkes is happy, Albus knows that. And it is strange, for he never thought the bird _unhappy _before, but there is a certain something in his movements nowadays, the way he chirps, that makes Albus think his mood is remarkably bright, especially whenever he’s around the two of them at the same time. He practically lives in Paris now, and Albus cannot be mad about it. He doesn’t even care that at times it’s almost as if he listens more to Gellert than to him. Because really, everything that belongs to Albus, in his eyes, belongs to Gellert as well. And that, of course, includes his body, heart, soul and mind. They’re his to do with them as he pleases.

Even break them.

♠

** _Serpentine Corridor, Third Floor, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 20 March 1936_ **

They’re on his way back to the common room after their last class of the day, tired but happy and already considering leaving their homework for later, when a shout from their backs stops them in their tracks.

“Potter!”

Harry takes a deep breath and asks Merlin for patience in the back of his mind, before turning to face the owner of that unmistakable voice. “Yes, Malfoy?”

“I hope you’re ready for tomorrow’s match, because I’ll tell you know, you’ve got no idea—”

He’s interrupted by the frightened cry of a third-year that had been passing by, practicing the movement of her wand for a charm, right as a bright light was shot by the tip without her saying anything. They all turn to look at it, more curious than worried, when they realize the wand seems to be showing a photograph of a man being thrown inside a room.

By Harry’s right, Hermione gasps. She then takes out her own wand and realizes it is doing the same thing, and so is Ron’s. Crabbe and Goyle share an alarmed look before taking out theirs, and confirming that, indeed, they are showing the same images as well — except they’re not, as Harry had thought, photographs. It’s more like a movie, with audio too, in pale colours, and the two men that start circling the one from the beginning are distinctly Aurors.

“An interrogation,” whispers Hermione.

“Merlin, that’s Barty Crouch Jr.!” Crabbe says, wide-eyed. “He looks like shit already…”

“Hush,” hisses Draco, “he’s saying something.”

_“Fine, I admit it. I sympathize with his ideas! I went to his rally in Hungary!” _says the man being interrogated. Harry doesn’t know him, and he finds it incredible that anyone could recognize him in the state he’s already in, but he’s willing to give Crabbe the benefit of the doubt.

Then one of the Aurors laugh.

_“Already? It hasn’t been three hours yet! We’re only starting!”_

_“Yes. And that’s not enough. We’ve got a lot of questions…”_

Harry pales, and he doesn’t even notice Hermione squeezing his arm with enough strength to stop his blood circulation. There are other students and some professors standing all around the halls, watching just as stunned. Most are quiet, but there are a couple of mumbled questions from time to time, mostly regarding whether what they’re seeing is a memory or happening in real time.

“He confessed,” mutters Ron weakly, “why don’t they stop? Why don’t they…” his voice dies as a piercing cry leaves Barty’s mouth. It is unclear what the Aurors just casted, or which one did, but it is pretty obvious what the curse is doing.

“That’s illegal!” Hermione whimpers.

“They don’t care,” says Malfoy, looking just as shocked and upset as the rest of them.

What makes Harry’s blood run cold is that he’s right.

♠

** _Warsaw, Poland. Early hours of 21 March 1936._ **

Hector has an unbearable headache. He’s had it for hours, ever since his wand decided to act by its own accord several hours earlier and show him a distasteful scene. He can argue that some of it was necessary, but the use of excessive force and abuse of power by two clearly disturbed individuals wearing Auror uniforms is undeniable. For half an hour he hoped they could tell the world —be it true or not— that they had been impersonators, completely unconnected to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but they were quickly identified and detained, the fact that they were no impersonators leaked within the first two hours after the transmission started, in an Evening edition of the Daily Prophet which also managed to include all sorts of details, such as who the man being interrogated was, and for how long he’d been in custody, since they’d been able to cut the illegal transmission —of a memory and not the thing happening in real time— about forty minutes after it started, which was way too long for anyone with a weak stomach or heart to endure. After that, his afternoon was simply a marathon trying to contain the situation, but there was very little he could do, no matter how many things they tried. By midnight, he had to admit that the involvement of the international community was simply unavoidable — especially since the transmission had reached people in other countries; not in the same way, fortunately. Their wands were not intercepted. But the memories were still displayed on the walls of every major crowded street in magical districts of Europe.

“We’ve got to do some damage control,” says Anna Wyporska, who’s leading the meeting for reasons Fawley cannot understand, “at an international level. Fawley, what measurements are you going to take? Did you fire the men involved in that particular interrogation?”

“What? No, of course not!”

Pedro grimaces. “Come on now, Hector… you know that’s probably the best you can do at the moment, a quick response to appease the masses…”

“They were identified and talked to. But they didn’t break any rules or protocols. They’re outstanding professionals. The masses cannot control us!”

“Oh, but the masses do, in fact, control us, Fawley! They’re the voters! They chose us to _represent_ them!”

“And you can’t say they didn’t break any rules or protocols, Hector,” says Márk, grimacing. “The man confessed within three hours, but he was tortured for other thirty-two just so he would give up the names of people your government wants to get rid of! This is unacceptable!”

“And he was the son of a judge,” adds Jean Pierre. “Apparently, people are speculating that to normal folks it’s even worse. And that’s happening in Paris. I can’t—I don’t want to imagine what they’re saying in the UK.”

“Did he receive medical attention right away?” asks Anna.

Hector takes a deep breath and nods. “Yes.”

“And? How is he?” asks Pedro.

“He’ll have to stay in the hospital for a week at least, and it is yet unclear whether he’ll be able to use his left hand ever again.”

Silence floods the room. Some stir in their chairs, awkwardly shifting and trying not to show how baffled they are.

“At least one good thing came up from this,” says Johannes Ceelen, looking sympathetic, “the Judge that so adamantly wanted to process you will have to back off.”

Hector smiles weakly, not really knowing what to say to that. The Dutch and him aren’t really friends, and he hadn’t been aware the rumours of people demanding he was removed from office had even reached other countries.

Friedrich Rotenhahn frowns. “Why?”

“Because the young man from that awful interrogation is his son. He can insist, but his credibility will undoubtedly take a hard blow. The boy admitted being an acolyte of Grindelwald, after all.”

“He is a martyr,” argues Anna with a frown.

“Maybe, to those who support Grindelwald. But will anybody believe the judge to remain impartial? Did he not know what his son was doing? What does that make of him, as a parent?”

“Yes, you need to use that, Hector,” says Pedro, nodding along.

“Let’s make room for the bad news, now,” says the Austrian Minister, Hannerl Kollerin. “The American president wants to talk to us. She’s waiting for our call. And apparently, she intends to send people here, to investigate us.”

“What?” Several cries of both scandal and fury raise from other world leaders, and the Austrian witch seems just as upset with the news she delivered.

“Let’s call her right away,” says Johannes.

“Yes, and let’s tell her to go fuck herself,” adds Márk, frowning and leaning forward on the table.

Anna shakes her head. “Please, all, let’s remain calm. None of us like the news, I’m sure, but we must be respectful nevertheless.”

“She’s the one being disrespectful!”

“Alright, let’s be quiet, now…”

“_Good evening,_” says Seraphina Picquery, from a portable coal stove. “_Thank you for talking to me. I hope Minister Kollerin already told you what I wanted to say._”

“Madam President, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I honestly do not think America has anything to do with this,” says Friedrich.

“_The entire world is involved,_” she replies,_ “because Grindelwald is a threat to the entire magical community, Minister. However, it is true that we’re apart from you. And that’s what makes us perfect for this endeavour. We’re impartial_. _I’m going to send my best Auror with a team of his choosing. He’s perfectly professional, discreet, and more than qualified for an investigation of this size and importance._”

Hector’s headache simply gets worse.

**♠**

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. Three hours earlier._ **

“I’ve got to tell you, sir,” says MacDuff, “even though I knew it was coming, I almost had a heart attack when my wand started transmitting the interrogation.”

“It was a brilliant move, certainly,” says Vinda, smiling proudly, almost as if that had been her idea. “And putting the population against the authorities!”

“We know they’re doing this in the UK, but what about the rest of Europe? Is it any better?” asks Krafft.

“In France, yes,” says Nagel. “They’re not nearly as brutal. Italy either. But so far as I know, the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and Denmark are the same, if not worse.”

“Spain is hell,” adds Carrow.

“We’ll spread the message everywhere,” says Gellert, “regardless of their particular methods.”

“If anything can convince the population that the persecution of our group is wrong, this will,” says Vinda.

“I propose a toast!” says MacDuff with a big grin.

“Please, remember that for us to count with this proof, a loyal member of our files volunteered to receive a terrible torture,” says Gellert. He wants to leave fast. He knows Albus is waiting in their bedroom, and although he’s not eager to have _that _conversation, he knows he cannot delay it. He has one drink with them, receives their compliments, and then excuses himself without bothering to see their faces. There’s only one he wants to see, no matter the expression on it.

“They don’t know if he’ll ever be able to use his left hand again,” Albus says, as soon as he gets in. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, still dressed. Face unreadable and mind closed.

Gellert licks his lips and hesitates by the door, unsure if he’s welcomed on the bed. “I know. It’s simply terrible.”

“He was my student. Troubled, but brilliant kid.”

“He knew what was at stake. He volunteered.”

“This is my fault.”

Gellert shakes his head and stops wondering what’s allowed and what isn’t. He crosses the distance and kneels on the floor in front of Albus, grabbing his hands and kissing them. “The only ones that are truly at fault here are those directly involved in the interrogation and its design. Not you. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t think of it. I did.”

“But you did it because of me.”

“Yes. But I also did it because it was useful. I know it was terrible, and I’ll do my best to ensure Barty makes a full recovery. We’ll retrieve him later this week, and he’ll be treated here. But I can see out of the horrors of what they did to him and assess the situation for what it means for our movement. And that’s a good thing. It’s progress. Please, take a moment to see it that way.”

“Oh, I already did. Which only makes me a worse person,” he shakes his head with a self-depreciative smile. He then cups Gellert’s face and pulls him up to kiss him. “For our movement it was brilliant, clearly.”

Gellert grins.

Albus wonders if they’re going to hell, that place his mother once told him about, while he drags Gellert on top of him and begs him to make love to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, you got issues.
> 
> If anybody found the timeline of this chapter confusing, have some clarification:  
>>>17 March 1936, around 19:00, Aurors take Newt for interrogation.  
>>>18 March 1936, most of this chapter. It begins at lunchtime, with the radio show and Tina visiting Remus.  
>>>19 March 1936, around 02:00 the meeting of the Custodian ends and Albus goes back to Paris to a voyeur phoenix.  
>>>19 March 1936, around 08:00 Barty Crouch Jr. is taken for interrogation.  
>>>20 March 1936, around 17:00 every wand in the UK starts transmiting the memories from Barty's interrogation.  
>>>20 March 1936, around 22:00 Gellert's acolytes celebrate.  
>>>21 March 1936, around 01:00 European leaders discuss the situation.
> 
> I hope that helps! I keep a very specific timeline so if at any time you get confused, please just ask! I thought I'd share this much because I had to count the hours more than once... hehe
> 
> Also, I know The Quibbler is normally written and edited by Luna’s dad, but since it’s pretty much the only alternative to The Daily Prophet (and it’s so weird it’s not even a subtle monopoly of the media!) I decided to make it into something slightly, just slightly bigger.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys liked it!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'd like to thank Vandrerska for helping me find a more adequate name for the Dutch Minister for Magic. I'll go back right after I post this to correct it (from Louis Murmellius to Johannes Ceelen) in the older chapters.
> 
> Also, well, this took a little longer than I'd like to. And the one reason I have for it is that emotionally this month is always difficult. But it's nearly over, so I should get back on track now.
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone, and let's see if I can post one more chapter before the year is over!

** _St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, England. 22 March 1936._ **

When they graduated from Hogwarts, no one was surprised James went straight to the Auror’s training, or that Peter got an unimportant job at the ministry, or that Remus apparently had been secretly writing a novel and was already on his way of getting it published. No matter who they asked, everyone agreed that was exactly what they were expecting. They also seemed to share their confusion whenever they heard Sirius wasn’t, in turn, going to become an Auror like James. There were a few exceptions, of course — his uncle Phineas, James, Remus, Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall all seemed to find it the most natural thing in the world, but everyone else, including Peter, Evans, and every other teacher, were simply astonished to hear that he wanted to become a healer.

Two decades after that, Sirius rarely thinks about it, and people don’t find it weird anymore. He’s _good _at what he does, and he knows the hospital as well as his own house. The house he shares with his husband and daughter, of course, not the manor he grew up in. He doesn’t think he ever saw that building in its entirety; not the manor, and certainly not the people that lived in it, that he hasn’t seen in years, which is why his brain stops working for a moment when he’s stopped by his brother when he’s going back inside after he took a break for a smoke.

“Regulus?”

“Hey. The healer robes suit you. Could you do me a favour?”

Sirius stares some more at the young man in front of him, the bags under his eyes and the dry skin a clear sign that something’s wrong. That, and the fact that he just asked him for a favour, after _many _years of absolute silence.

“Please?”

“I’ll think about it,” he croaks, because he doesn’t feel like saying no, but he doesn’t feel like saying yes either. “What do you need?”

Regulus takes a deep breath. “I want to see a patient.”

“Visiting hours are—”

“He’s not getting visitors. He’s— look, I just, I really need to see Bartemius Crouch Junior.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?”

“Do you honestly believe I’d come all the way here to mess with you? Sirius, please. I need to see him. I need to…” he huffs, takes a step back and anxiously runs his hands through his hair, which is shorter than he remembers, “I just want to see him. I just want to know that he’s okay. Please.”

Even if he wanted to be an arsehole to the brother that refused to go to his wedding and never spoke to him again, he just can’t. At age thirty-four, he’s still Sirius’s little brother, and he’s _hurting_, it is clear, and Sirius knows very well _why_ he is hurting. He sighs. “He’s in custody though. He’s considered a criminal regardless of his injuries, Reg. He’s a sympathizer of Grindelwald.”

“I know, but I need to see him. Please, Sirius, you’ve got to help me.”

“I will. But we’re going to need to be sneaky. Can you handle it?”

“I was a Slytherin. Of course I can handle it.”

Sirius smirks. “Alright, let’s go.”

In theory, it should be hard for anyone to get into a prisoner’s hospital room, and in reality, it is. Even for visitors. But Sirius Black isn’t anyone; he’s the Head Healer on that floor _and _an expert at getting in and out of hairy situations and places where he’s not allowed to be. His years at Hogwarts doing exactly that —both in the castle and at his family house— more than prove it, and his younger brother is well aware of it. In minutes, Regulus is inside.

Sirius stands right next to the bedroom’s door while he waits for his brother, pretending to read some parchments while actively doing his best not to eavesdrop no matter how curious he is. The two Aurors that see him grant him a polite smile, and he makes sure no one is around when his brother is finally ready to leave about half an hour later.

“I didn’t know you two were still in touch,” says Sirius once they’re in authorized ground for his brother to stand in.

Regulus shrugs. “Yeah, we’re…” he clears his throat, “we’re good friends.”

Sirius purses his lips and thinks back to his seventh year, when a thirteen-year-old Regulus had said something similar. “Did you know about… that?” he asks then, nodding vaguely, hoping his brother will understand what he means.

“No.”

“Ah.”

“I didn’t. I really…” he runs a hand through his hair, “I knew he liked what the guy says, but I never thought he would…”

“I get it. I do, Reg. Relax.” He almost rubs a hand on his brother’s back but decides not to.

“This is really awkward,” Regulus mutters weakly.

Sirius snorts. “Now I believe that’s an understatement.”

Regulus shrugs one shoulder, smiling sheepishly. “It’s not like it was ever easy to talk to you, but this…”

Sirius frowns. “What do you mean by that? It’s not hard to talk to me!”

“Back when we were kids? Sirius, please.” He shakes his head, as if incredulous to Sirius’s disbelief. He then sighs. “Well, I better get going. Thank you for helping me, I… thank you.”

“No problem. It was good seeing you, Reg. Really.”

“Yeah. I liked seeing you too.”

“Don’t disappear, okay? Actually…” he checks the time, “would you like going out right now? Get some food? I can get away for about ten minutes to have some food.”

“I’d like that,” says Regulus, shifting his weight in his feet and slipping one hand in his pocket, just like he would do every time he lied since he was four, “but I’ve got somewhere to be. Maybe some other time.”

“Sure,” says Sirius, not pushing for once. He’s supposed to meet with James in less than an hour anyway, so that’s probably for the better. He doesn’t know when he’ll see his brother again, but it’s a considerably better way of separating than the last time they spoke, so he waves a hand goodbye with a genuine smile.

♠

** _Calais, France. Early hours of 23 March 1936._ **

“Lily is going to be so mad,” mutters James, throwing his head back against the wooden panel.

Sirius snorts and keeps his eye out, since his friend is certainly not. “If you think she doesn’t know exactly what we’re doing, you’re crazy.”

“Oh, I know she knows. It’s a small miracle she didn’t stop me from coming. Still, I’m sure she won’t be happy when I get back.”

“You think she would rather you don’t?”

James flickers his wand viciously, and Sirius’s hiss turns into giggles while the sting at the back of his head is still fading. He knows he deserves it, and either is going to apologize, so he keeps watching ahead, focused. The change in their plan is still recent and he’s a little worried about forgetting part of it, since it used to be radically different.

They’d been planning on sabotaging the entire floor where the interrogations were being held, but decided not to after what happened with Barty Crouch Jr.’s. All around the UK people were writing to the Ministry demanding they changed their ways, overflowing them with letters and threats of legal action; so long that remained nonviolent, the Ministry’s reputation would only go down the longer they kept things unchanged. If they were to do something huge and aggressive like that, it would only turn the wicked enforcers of a terrible system into redeemable victims. Still, there were other things James and Sirius could do instead that were just as necessary, and that brought them to the other side of the Channel, where they would meet with one of the spies infiltrated in Grindelwald’s lines.

“That’s him,” whispers James, nodding towards a silver line appearing on the sky, fast and thin, drawing the way they’re supposed to follow. “Come on.” He stands up, grabs Sirius’s shoulder, and apparates them where he knows his friend will be waiting for them.

Sirius hasn’t been there before, and James has only gone twice, so they look around curiously after greeting Edgar Bones, who is sitting by the chimney with three glasses in front of him, one already filled.

“You can take those files back with you,” he points at some parchments rolled on top of the couch, “but you can read them now if you want, so you can tell me if you’ve got any questions. Would you like some butterbeer? Firewhisky? Wine?”

“Firewhisky, please,” says Sirius, and then he sits to read.

The parchments are long, of course, but they’re both fast readers. James has a muggle notepad of his own to write down the major facts Edgar must have discovered, but after forty minutes his quill remains on the centre table, unused. There are a couple of interesting statements, but it’s all too vague, even when there are few mentions of physical places. It’s a little disappointing, but either of them is planning on complaining. They can only imagine how difficult it must be for him, and just obtaining that much is a remarkable achievement.

“Are you done? I’m sorry, I know it’s not much,” says Edgar, pouring himself a fifth glass of firewhisky.

“No, this is a lot, thank you,” says Sirius.

James frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I just… bloody hell, James, I’m afraid I might be compromised.”

“What?” he exchanges a worried look with Sirius, who is tensed in his seat and ready to leave. “Why? What happened? Someone suspects?”

“No,” Edgar shakes his head, “not in that way. I meant,” he licks his lips, “I meant that with all this torture thing, and how Grindelwald’s people worked so hard to reveal it to the public, I’m just… confused, that’s all. I still haven’t seen the man up close once, but…” he shrugs, “at least the rumours about him, caring about the people that follow him? They were true. He’s… Merlin,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I’m starting to believe he’s for real.”

“Edgar…”

“I’m not going to tell on the Custodians, don’t worry about that. I’m still loyal to you first, but… well, maybe you shouldn’t tell me much about your plans in the future. Just in case. There are talented Legilimens around here, anyway.”

James is about to protest, but Sirius quiets him by placing a hand on his shoulder, and he says: “Of course. We can do that. Don’t worry.”

They leave soon after. They don’t talk about it on the way back.

♠

** _Venice, Italy. 23 March 1936._ **

“Is this a date?” asks Albus. “Or are we going to casually meet another politician?”

Gellert smiles. “No, it’s just you and me today. This is a date.” It’s been an exact month since the world started feeling right again, and he feels like celebrating. He raises his glass of wine and clashes it against Albus’s. “About time we had one, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I agree,” he says, smiling brightly, and he doesn’t allow any dark thoughts to slide in. There’s simply no room for them, with so many wonderful ideas flooding his mind. The air is warm around them, and for hours, they play pretend and it’s everything Albus imagined and more. They walk around different shops and have lunch in an exclusive restaurant, and once they’re done with that, they get on a gondola completely alone, unless they count the charmed rowing.

After a few concealment charms, Albus realizes why their disguise is about to wear off, and he’s delighted when he can finally see Gellert’s face staring back at him, there, as if they were just another couple enjoying a romantic evening. It is all too easy to forget all worries while they discuss the benefits and weaknesses of the Ministry of magic becoming some sort of guarantor for individuals and ensure they all have got access to decent living conditions and the prospect of including all beings and even some beasts of the magical community to said measurements.

“Can we really include communities that do not operate within our own rules? Do we even know what’s considered ‘decent’ by merpeople’s standards, for example?” Gellert points out logically.

“I believe the possibility needs to be studied even so. If they eventually agree to come out of secrecy along with us, then we’ll be partially responsible to keep the relations between them and muggles civil.”

“Of course,” Gellert agrees easily. There are still many things that need to be done before most of their plans can be implemented, but there are some things that could become a reality sooner, if their tentative friendship with the French Minister keeps growing. And who knows. Maybe Antioch and Cyneric could meet other politicians and do much more. It is certainly an entertaining possibility they like exploring when they have the time.

Among other things, of course. Safe from the eyes and ears of others, it is difficult to resist the urge to celebrate every brilliant assessment with a kiss or two. And given that most of the things they say are brilliant, it often isn’t long before the conversation is postponed, so that their mouths can be preoccupied with other, slightly more pleasurable activities. The wood creaks and slopes underneath them, but they don’t care. It is only when their robes start to bother them that Albus distractedly takes them back to Paris, where there’s no danger of falling into the water and the air is cleaner, drier, familiar and nice. The softer surface of Gellert’s bed is also an improvement. There, it’s safe to forget about the rest of the world and just focus on the texture of Gellert’s hair between his fingers, the comforting weight of his body pressing down on him in every place that matters, the taste of the inside of his mouth and the firm grip of his hands just short of leaving bruises, marking him everywhere. All that is Gellert is such an assault to his senses that he almost doesn’t hear the knock on the door, but it is such an alien sound in that setting that the both of them stop instantly, surprised and only mildly concerned.

“I thought you said no one was allowed near your quarters?” asks Albus in a whisper.

“Exactly,” Gellert growls, glaring at the opposite wall. He stands up brusquely and barely bothers enough to put on a robe to cover himself before opening the door just enough to peak his head out. “Vinda?” he snarls at the intruder. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I tried sending you a note, calling your chimney, and I even used a muggle phone, but you wouldn’t pick up. If it weren’t important, you know I’d never had come. But I needed to tell you— Merlin,” her eyes widen as she finally notices his appearance, “were you in there with someone?”

“Just go straight to the point, Vinda. Please.”

“But—”

Gellert sighs and closes the door on her face. He then turns around to look at Albus, who is staring at him with amusement and twinkling eyes, and he asks: “Would you like meeting her? She’s never going to forget about it now.”

Albus bites his index finger — a nervous gesture he does whenever he’s pounding two options, stuck between doing what he wants, and what he knows he must do. He does it a lot lately, especially in early mornings, when he’s just in time to make it for breakfast at Hogwarts. Gellert simply watches, giving him time, until Albus nods. “Alright.” He opens his palm and a robe flies to him. “Let her in.”

Gellert opens the door and gestures for her to come in, which she does hesitantly, but clearly curious. Her expression turns into one of unconcealed shock the moment she recognizes the man that’s standing right by Gellert’s bed.

“That’s Albus Dumbledore,” she mumbles, pointing at him and turning alarmed eyes to the blonde as if making sure he’s aware of it.

Gellert arches his eyebrows. “Yes, I know.”

“You are in your bedroom… with Albus Dumbledore.” She doesn’t seem able to stop looking at him, as if concerned he may attack them if she does. He just stands still, trying to look as unthreatening as possible, but his reputation is enough to make his performance useless. She gathers some courage among a deep breath and fully turns towards Gellert, hissing: “The man that imprisoned you, and who is currently leading another group to do it again.”

“No,” Gellert shakes his head, “no, he’s not their leader. And he wasn’t the one to imprison me, he merely defeated me and surrendered me to the authorities.”

She’s afraid the man may have lost his head. A course is a strong possibility as well, but she doesn’t dare to draw out her wand just yet, alone with two of the most powerful wizards alive. “My Lord—” she tries, some desperation making it to her voice.

“Vinda, will you please calm down? I can’t explain if you don’t let me speak. Don’t be so agitated.”

“Okay, then explain,” she demands, folding her arms around her middle defensively.

Gellert sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s messy, he knows, from rolling around the bed with Albus —and the fact that Albus seems to love messing it up now that it’s a little longer again—, which is a thought that doesn’t help in the slightest.

“We love each other,” says Albus, clearly noticing Gellert didn’t have anything planned.

“Yes,” says Gellert, “we do. We have, for years now.”

Vinda stares at them in disbelief. “What? What are you— when, when did this happen?”

Gellert glances at Albus, unsure if he wants them to be honest, but his troubled expression is hard to read. He grabs his hand and gives him an encouraging squeeze. Then he says: “About two minutes into meeting each other, back in June of 1899.”

“June?”

Gellert hums.

“How come you never said you knew him?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a long story. It’s complicated, you see—”

“We killed my sister,” says Albus, interrupting him abruptly and shocking both, Gellert and Vinda. “It was an accident,” he adds almost as an afterthought, “but it… it changed everything. It made me… it scared me. And I blamed our plans and dreams for it. So I told Gellert to leave, and then we didn’t talk for years.”

“I mean, we started exchanging letters again in 1902, so really, it wasn’t _that _long,” argues Gellert, though his eyes do not meet Albus’s. He rubs the back of his neck and shifts in his feet, looking almost sheepish.

His demeanour is baffling, and she turns brusquely to accuse the other man, hands on her hips. “And you still threw him in jail?”

“I disagreed with his methods back then.”

Vinda has always been a very smart woman, and she proves it again when, eyes narrowed, she notices: “Only his methods? Only back then?”

Albus smiles sheepishly and shrugs. “Do you genuinely believe he came up with all of his ideas on his own?”

“That’s not fair,” says Gellert, though the silly grin on his face cannot possibly help his case, “we had pretty similar ideas.”

“That were fortified by our conversations. On our own, it would’ve taken us longer to reach the same conclusions we did when we discussed our theories and different understandings and interpretations of the same books.”

“I don’t know about longer. I recall we wasted a lot of time doing more than talking—”

“And I’m sure Miss Rosier has no interest in hearing about _that_, Gel!”

Gellert wants to laugh, and he also wants to kiss Albus senseless, but he doesn’t do either, for he is distracted by Vinda’s delighted laughter. He turns to stare at her in surprise, lips pursed, and represses a smile when he notices Albus leaning closer to him. “What’s so funny?” he asks her.

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t seem to be able to stop laughing. Her face has turned red, and if she doesn’t stop soon, Gellert may worry. That, or he’ll start to feel irritated. Maybe both.

“I’m sorry,” she struggles to say in between gasps, “I’m sorry, I just, this is all surreal!” She finally regains her composure and discreetly dries her eye with her ring finger. “You two are supposed to be these… legendary adversaries, you’re practically living legends, and you… you just seemed so… real, just now.”

“We are real, dear,” says Albus softly.

“Yeah, I can see that.” She licks her lips, still looking at them with a very weird expression. “And you make a cute couple.”

“Thank you,” says Gellert.

Her lips stretch in the biggest smile he’s ever seen on her, and he’s momentarily concerned she’ll start laughing again, but she doesn’t. She clears her throat.

“Does this mean that you are on our side, then?” she asks Albus.

He nods. “That’s correct.”

She’s taken aback by his bluntness. “Oh. Then — when are you going to, you know, tell the rest of us?”

“Not yet,” replies Gellert, squaring his shoulders. “Albus’s involvement needs to stay secret for now.”

She hums. “I imagine it would be bad if some of the spies found out. Ah, especially that private group from the UK, right?”

“You’re too bright for your own good, Vinda. Stop making questions already. You said you needed to tell me something?”

“Oh, yes! Riddle fucked up, and now the goblins hate us. Nagel and MacDuff went to speak with Bodrig the Boss-Eyed, who’s currently the most influential activist, and he seems to be willing to listen to them, but there are many openly furious, and it is also possible they will turn against us and betray us if we’re not careful.”

“The Goblin Liberation Front were our allies since the beginning,” says Gellert, frowning. “How could he be such an idiot?”

“He pretends otherwise, but he clearly has a strong distaste of most magical creatures. He’s trying to alienate them — and he did manage it, this time.”

“You should go,” says Albus, who easily noticed the conflictive thoughts inside his head without even looking into it.

Gellert pouts. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“I’m afraid that if I say yes, you’ll be too distracted. Maybe I should go back to Hogwarts tonight.”

Gellert sighs, looking disappointed. “You’re probably right. Vinda, wait outside. I’ll be with you in a minute. I need to get dressed.”

“Of course,” she leaves right away, fully aware of her reddened face. The last thing she wants is to think of them saying goodbye to each other, but there’s hardly anything else she can think of. She can’t believe MacDuff was right. She’s relieved when Gellert appears mere minutes after, looking just as collected as always, when a thought flashes through and makes her frown. She doesn’t vocalize it though, not yet. She waits until after they meet with the Goblins.

It is always impressive, watching Gellert Grindelwald interact with leaders, no matter what species they are. He’s always respectful, but also clear and assertive. Conciliatory, yet firm and disinclined to compromise. He believes he’s right and doesn’t stop until he’s convinced everyone else in the room about it. And Vinda has never seen him fail. She still acknowledges that is a small miracle he doesn’t, that night. The Goblins were _furious_, and their association will be delicate, to say the least, for a while. But it is not irrevocably broken, like it could’ve been, and that’s enough of a victory for the time being.

Back in Paris, memories from her previous discovery rush back to the front of her mind as soon as they’re alone inside. She’s not as shocked as she was two hours ago — it almost makes sense, now that she’s thought of it. But she still has a lot of questions she wants to make, and she begins as soon as she can, with:

“He’s the reason we exposed the brutality of the British interrogations, isn’t he?”

Gellert doesn’t turn to glare at her, but she feels like he wants to, when he stops walking to take a deep breath. “Vinda…”

“I’m not complaining,” she admits sincerely. “That was a great move. If he inspired it, that’s a point on his favour on my sight.”

“Good.”

She smirks. “Morgana, he did inspire you. How much of what we do isn’t a righteous, selfless act, and a love declaration instead? I’m baffled.”

“Most of the things I do, I do for him. However, anything that’s ever done for him is always in favour of the rest of the world, because he is a selfless, righteous individual. Now, are you done?”

“You’re going to the studio?” Vinda notices, surprised.

“Yeah. Because of all this mess, there’s no one waiting for me in my room tonight.”

She represses a sardonic grin, although her amusement is still visible on her face. “Oh, please forgive me. I’m terribly sorry I ruined your night. I imagine it’s been _so long _since the last time you saw any action.”

“Have you ever heard anyone complain about having too much sex with the person they love? Don’t mock me for being human. And we lost thirty-six years of mind-blowing sex. We need to make up for it.”

She throws her head back as she laughs loudly. She doesn’t blame him for being human, but up until now, she doesn’t think she ever thought of him as one. Not entirely. It is strange.

Not bad. Just strange. Almost endearing. Her laughter stops abruptly when they enter the studio though. It only takes five seconds, recognizing the stranger, but her wand is up already, and she can barely stop the words from leaving her mouth. She swallows the curse, and says instead: “Bella? What, on Morgana’s grave, are you doing here?”

The woman is suspiciously standing far enough from any furniture that is unclear what she’d been doing, and the nervous smile that stretches her lips doesn’t give anything away, either. “Auntie, I was hoping I could see you!”

“Vinda?” Gellert mutters, arching one eyebrow, relaxed but understandably confused.

“This is my niece, Bella. Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Hello.”

“She’s been in this building before, but only on the first floor.” She glares at her niece. “I’ve got no idea what she thinks she’s doing here. I’m sorry,” she tells Gellert, apologetically, and then turns to Bellatrix looking vicious, her arms folded on top of her chest. “You, start talking. What do you think you’re doing here?”

“I was just looking for you, auntie, I swear. You were nowhere to be found, but I knew you could be often found in here, so I thought I’d wait. I’m so sorry. I should’ve known better.”

“What did you want to tell me that it was so urgent?”

“Well, it’s not exactly urgent. Just upsetting. I was hoping you would listen.”

“Well, go ahead, then,” says Gellert, waving a hand to summon three glasses and a bottle of wine. He doesn’t ask if he’s allowed to listen, and he doesn’t suggest they go somewhere else. He knows Vinda won’t argue, even if she wanted to, so he holds the gaze of the intruder until she accepts the glass and sits down, ready to begin.

“It’s my little sister, Narcissa. She’s married to Lucius Malfoy, I’m sure the news about his criticism of Fawley has reached you.”

“It has,” admits Gellert.

Bellatrix nods. “Yes, so he’s…” she licks her lips, “back in Hogwarts he was interested in this. But he’s a pure-blood supremacist, so you’ll understand he lost interest in this movement a while ago, and since your escape he’s been very vocal about the need to catch you.”

“Okay, so he’s a tosser. Please, continue.”

“Yes. Anyway, he’s been growing on popularity, and apparently, he’s going for the position of Minister in the near future. Which would be terrible, because he’s an incompetent wanker, but that’s not even the main problem.”

“_What_ is the main problem?” Vinda asks tiredly.

“I’m almost certain he’s cheating on Narcissa. Which would be okay if he weren’t such an arse to her, belittling her _all_ the time and acting as if he’d done her a favour for marrying her, when it’s definitely the opposite! In fact, his family used to hang around muggles before the Statute was established! And now he acts as if they cared about blood purity more than _our_ family? How dare he! He’s a pig.”

Gellert exchanges a subtly baffled look with Vinda, who just seems to be exhausted.

“Shouldn’t your sister be the one telling him that? She’s the one that’s married to him,” Gellert says awkwardly.

Bellatrix sighs and runs a hand through that wild hair of hers. “She _should_, but she doesn’t. Honestly, she deserves so much better. But I guess at this point there’s very little that can be done about it.”

“I’m not going to help you to kill him,” Vinda says firmly.

Bellatrix pouts. “I understand. That’s okay. I’m starting to believe Cissy wouldn’t appreciate it, not yet. Maybe in a few months…”

“Fine, you can ask me again then.”

“Thank you!”

“Now, please, leave.”

“Oh, of course.” She finishes her half-empty glass in one gulp, gives them both a dazzling smile, and disapparates.

Vinda sighs heavily. “I’m sorry about that,” she says.

Gellert chuckles. “Ah, don’t worry. It was quite entertaining, to be honest.”

Vinda wants to argue, but she has a headache, and she’s afraid what little words may leave her mouth will be ruder than necessary.

“Just go to sleep,” he says, because he knows her well, too. “And maybe go on a date tomorrow, I don’t know.”

She stares.

“What? I’ve got eyes, and ears, and MacDuff tells me things. She’s pretty.”

“She’s not interested.”

Gellert hums. “That’s a shame.”

She agrees, but she keeps the words to herself. They escape her mouth only as she lays down and pulls the covers over her, pretty eyes and pretty lips flashing behind her eyelids right before she falls asleep.

♠

** _Unplottable location, somewhere in the midsection of England. Same time._ **

Bellatrix makes her way to her Lord’s residence as silent as a snake and considers hexing the incompetent who is supposed to be mounting guard and doesn’t see her. She doesn’t, because she knows her Lord is waiting for her. She’s sure he will know how to appropriate chastise the fool after they’re done.

“How did it go?” Lord Marvolo asks as soon as she enters the room he’s in, with no need of turning around.

“It went well,” Bellatrix replies, smiling victoriously as she goes to kneel in front of him. “They were back sooner, though. They saw me, and I had to improvise.” In her eyes, she’d had two options: she could betray her Lord’s trust and tell her aunt what she was doing, or she could waste some valuable time gossiping about her sister — it goes unsaid that it wasn’t a tough choice at all.

“Do you think they suspect the real reason you were there?”

She shakes her head. “No, they haven’t got a clue.”

“Well done,” his lips curl, the closest to a smile he ever gets when he’s not acting, and her heart flutters in her chest as fast as the wings of a crow that’s struggling to make its way through a stormy weather in the death of the night.

He dismisses her right away, but he listens intently to her when she mentions his guard’s incompetence before leaving, and he promises to take care of it.

She goes to sleep with a smile on her face.

♠

** _Wiltshire, England. 24 March 1936._ **

There are many differences between a manor and a house, or so Narcissa has heard. For starters, apparently those that live in houses tend to associate the entire building with safety, a feeling of belonging, and it’s a place where they can relax and just be themselves.

Manors aren’t like that.

Thinking back to the manors she visited as a child, the one she grew up in, and the one she now lives in, she is certain that manors are _never _like that. They’re never safe. They’re never a place where one can feel like they _belong_, and no one can just relax and be authentic at any given time. Sure, there can be rooms where those things can be done to a lesser scale. Narcissa has always had her little sanctuaries for certain activities where no one else is allowed entry, and thus she can honestly relax, but never for too long. One ought not to get too comfortable, ever. It would be dangerous. And so she’s always alert, which comes in handy when the chimney of the library on the second floor of the west wing, which is too close to the stairs that lead to the entrance of the manor and has wide, glass doors, lights up and welcomes her sister.

“Cissy, are you ready?” she asks, loud and cheerful, as if she hadn’t learned anything from their childhood living with their parents.

Narcissa grabs her arm and pulls her into a different, far more discreet room, hushing her.

Bellatrix frowns. “What?”

Narcissa stays silent, eyeing the locked door worriedly for a moment, attentive.

Bellatrix crosses her arms and waits, albeit impatiently, looking irritated.

“Lucius has some important guests over,” she explains once she’s confident nobody heard them. “They can’t see you, you’re wanted for interrogation, remember?”

Her sister purses her lips. “Right. Whatever. I haven’t got to stay here any longer, let’s just go.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“The guests. I couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye.”

Her sister rolls her eyes, but she waves a hand in a dismissive gesture and turns to find a suitable chair to wait around. “Fine. Just hurry.”

Narcissa nods and does just that.

Downstairs, Lucius is in the sitting room, in a loveseat in front of their guests: American Auror Percival Graves, two of the five subordinates that accompany him in his investigation, and Leonard Spencer-Moon, who was only released from police custody in the late afternoon of the day before.

She smiles at them, and says: “Lucius, I…”

“There you are. Just in time. Let’s move on to the dining room…”

“Oh, but I can’t. I must—” she holds her tongue the moment her husband’s glacial stare lands on her, “I must stop by the kitchen and make sure everything is in perfect condition for our guests, of course. Then, I’ll join you at the table.”

Lucius’s lips curl slightly, in a grimace that may seem like a smile to a clueless stranger.

Narcissa is not clueless, nor a stranger. But she ignores him and goes anyway. Not to the kitchen, of course, but nobody notices and that’s what matters. Upstairs, her big sister looks comfortable, launched over her favourite divan by the back of the room, between a bookshelf and a small table.

“I can’t go,” she says. “You’ll have to do it alone.”

Bella frowns. “What? No way! We’ve been planning this for weeks!”

“I know. But things change. I’m sorry.”

She knows her sister is furious, but she doesn’t have the time to entertain her and her inability to understand how the world truly works and what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Her husband has plans, and she must play her part in them, no matter what. Hence, she joins the group of men for dinner, and she smiles, and she listens, and she covers for Lucius when his initial response is not the right one. Luckily, that happens less and less with the passage of time, and she’s starting to get a little optimistic about his future career in politics. She’s never liked dining with Aurors, but the only one that actually speaks is the Head of the case, Percival Graves. His subordinates stay quiet, even when the conversation could use their intervention, but to Narcissa, that’s all the better.

“Minister Fawley will not see us until the day after tomorrow, actually,” Graves has to answer at some point between the main course and dessert. “Apparently, he’s extremely busy. And I understand, of course.”

Lucius hums, disapproval clear on his face. “It is rude of him, even so. This is the time to be humble, given all the evidence against him and his administration.”

“But you saw Mr. Travers already, yes?” asks Narcissa.

“Yeah, yeah,” Graves nods hurriedly, “we spoke with him already, and he’s trying to be as cooperative as possible.”

“That’s remarkable of him,” she comments sincerely, well-aware of the man’s personality, “even if it’s the least he can do.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult regardless,” agrees Graves.

Spencer-Moon chuckles and nods his head in agreement. “That is one of the most prideful individuals I’ve ever met. I’m sure it’s making him ill, all this shit coming his way. But hey, he has it coming.”

The men around the table laugh, but she can only smile timidly. She doesn’t like Leonard Spencer-Moon and never has, and she doesn’t like having him sitting at her table. She doesn’t like pretending they like him, and she doesn’t like what her husband has in store for the gaunt looking man that surely has been through hell already, and bravely revisited the experience to help the Americans.

She doesn’t know if bravery is a good trait for a Minister of Magic. But if it were to be measured, she knows Lucius wouldn’t get too far.

She shuts down the part of her that wants that to happen, and she smiles. It is difficult, but she manages to put the guests at ease and helps Lucius come out as pleasant company.

She deserves an award for that, she knows.

She also knows she won’t be getting one.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we made it! It's still 2019 here, so, officially, this is the last chapter I'll publish this year! Let's see how soon I can post the first one of 2020, okay?

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. 24 March 1936._ **

On Tuesdays, Albus usually finishes up all his academic responsibilities around seven pm. On the few occasions there are particularly long essays to review, he simply takes them with him to Gellert’s place and works on them after dinner. In just a few weeks, that has turned into their routine, and very few things could ever change it. Or delay him, really. For it may be an embarrassing fact, but after they were so unexpectedly interrupted, he does everything in his power to make it there early, which means he shows up in Gellert’s bedroom at five, slightly out of breath and with a pile of parchments under his arm, and Fawkes over his shoulder carrying a few more.

“Hello!” both he and Fawkes chirp happily.

A smile spreads on Gellert’s face, and with a delicate wave of his hand he sends away all the papers that had been floating around him previously. Seemingly by their own accord, they find their place on top of his dresser, in two neat piles.

“Hi.” He watches with pure fondness the contrast that makes with the way Fawkes simply throws everything he’s carrying on the floor before flying to perch on the headboard of the bed. He’s not surprised that, after a mere second of hesitation, Albus proceeds to drop the ones he’s carrying carelessly on top of those.

“Were any of those written by your students?” Gellert asks with sheer, unconcealed amusement.

“They’re rolled up. I assure you, your carpet is by far a nicer surface than many of the places they tend to keep their school supplies.”

“Yes. I am aware children can be disgusting.”

Albus rolls his eyes even as he crawls on the bed to lie down next to his husband. “Not the word I would use.”

“You’re too nice,” he mumbles, confirmation just an inch away in the form of Albus’s lips, stretched wide, before they’re pressed against his own.

“What happened with the Goblins last night? Were you able to correct it?”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, “it was ridiculous. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it directly from their mouths, the things Riddle said to them. It took me two hours to convince them I was just as offended as they were. It was exhausting. And then, when we came back, Vinda’s niece Bellatrix was in the studio waiting for her, and we had to—”

“Bellatrix Black?” Albus interrupts him, sudden trepidation on his face.

“Eh, I believe she goes by Lestrange now?”

“That’s her.” Albus nods. “Are you sure she was on the studio just waiting for her?”

“Why?”

“She was my student. I just… can we go to the studio now? I’d like to check something.”

Gellert is intrigued, but he knows Albus will explain everything as soon as his suspicions are either confirmed or denied, so he takes him there after he locks the door, making sure no one will interrupt them. He watches Albus work, curiously, and a couple of theories of his own start to jump to his mind. He obviously had found the woman’s presence there a strange thing, and he wondered if she genuinely had only gone there to speak with Vinda, and what she may have seen or even taken from his studio in the time she was alone in there, but he’d been appeased by Vinda’s own reaction. Judging by Albus’s, he really should’ve been more careful. He wants to ask, he’s itching with questions, but he waits until Albus is done. When he seems to be, he opens his mouth but finds it blocked just as soon. He glares at his husband, for he’s never liked that hex, but is glad his lips are gone for he doesn’t need to repress his smile when Albus gives him an apologetic look that’s more unshielded glee than anything. Mere seconds later, Albus takes them back to Gellert’s room without a word. In the whole time they were in the studio, he didn’t speak a single word. And of course, that’s all Gellert needs to realize what’s happened.

“A spying charm?” he asks as soon as he can speak. “How dare she!”

Albus shakes his head. “I doubt it was for herself. She was following someone else’s orders.”

Gellert purses his lips. “Do you think she’s with the ICW?”

“No. No, I believe she’s with Riddle.”

That is, of course, easier to believe, and even understand. He throws his head back, feeling just a little bit silly, for allowing that annoying brat fool him.

“We can either neutralize it or use it to our advantage,” says Albus. “But if we do neutralize it, it’s probable he’ll realize I’m working with you.”

Gellert frowns. “Why is that?” he asks, straightening to see every possible detail on the other’s face, and the open display of compunction.

“Because of the charm she used; it is one _I_ taught him.”

“Why would you do that? I thought you always knew he was a deranged psychopath?”

Albus sighs. “I tried to help him, you know? He was… so alone. And he was, he was never authentic, for he wanted people to like him. When I taught him that, I was trying to convince him he didn’t need to pretend to be something he was not when he was with me. He was only thirteen. Of course, it wasn’t a good idea, and all my efforts turned poorly, I’m sure you’ve deduced that already.”

“Oh, yes.” He gives him an entertained grin, to show him he doesn’t blame him in the slightest. He could never resent that ridiculous big heart of his. “Let’s leave it there for now, then.”

“I’m sorry,” Albus insists.

Gellert holds his head and drops a kiss on his forehead. “You are forgiven.”

Albus’s expression shifts to one of knowing, slight irritation. “You’re too nice.”

The _nerve_. Gellert decides the best way to answer that is to drag him to bed; soft, delicate sheets tying firmly around his wrists and ankles and pulling him back fast enough that they push the air out of him in the form of delighted, surprised laughter. He watches for a moment, because the view of Albus Dumbledore surrendering control even for a second is always a thing of wonders, and then joins him, because he figures is about time they finish what they started the night before.

♠

** _St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, England. 25 March 1936._ **

In the hospital, Barty’s window points to the morgue. He’s not complaining. There’s something fascinating about the floating bodies — cadavers cannot apparate, after all. It’s a reminder of one’s mortality, the spectacle they make. As soon as he can stand up, he spends his afternoons watching attentively out the window. Technically, he’s not allowed any visitors. His wand was confiscated. He’s not even allowed any books or magazines. His main entertainment is looking out the window.

His mother comes every day, though. He’s not surprised she found a way to bend the rules enough to get in. She loves him.

She may be the only person who does. Well, she, and Regulus. It’s probably not at all surprising that they have been the only visitors he’s had, willing to break the law just to see him. He’s grateful, in a way. Although he’s not sure he would’ve done the same for either of them.

Maybe for Regulus. Just to see his smile, or the surprise bring out that rare gleam in his eyes, which Barty simply adores. He isn’t even sure why. His main theory is that it takes him back to all those times Barty woke him up in Hogwarts by making his cat jump on top of him, which had started as a cruel joke in first year only to be puzzled by the boy’s reaction, the fear quickly giving away to delight, that looked so out of place in him.

He’ll never admit it, but each time someone knocks on his door, he’s hoping it’ll be Regulus. And that only makes it worse when he gets a serious looking Auror instead.

“Mister Bartemius Crouch Junior, my name is Percival Graves, I’m an American Auror investigating the protocols of questioning that are being applied in relation to Grindelwald sympathizers' cases here in Europe, and I have some questions about the interrogation you were submitted to, on the 20th of March.”

Barty is understandingly irritated already, but he gathers enough patience to tiredly say: “Aren’t all my memories collected already?”

“There are some blanks I’d like to fill. What happened before and after the transmission, for example. Whether you had seen any of the men that took you into custody before. That sort of thing.”

“Never. I didn’t know any of them. Or if I ever did, I couldn’t recognize them. I’ve never been close to any Aurors. I don’t like them,” he smirks. “No offense.”

“I’m not offended.”

“How bad. I was expecting you would be.”

“Mister Crouch, you are aware that as soon as your injuries are healed, you’ll be shipped off to Azkaban?”

“No. Am I getting no trial?”

“You confessed.”

“I admitted going to a rally. Is that a crime?”

“It is, under the current circumstances.”

Barty sighs and looks away. The guy looks almost apologetic, as if he isn’t fully on top with that way of thinking, and maybe that could be exploitable, but he’s rather tired. Growing bones are always a bother, and they’re doing it one at a time so he doesn’t have to be drugged out of his mind for the entire process. His femur is currently three inches long, and he’s hearing colours. “Look, you’ll understand I’m not in the best of shapes. It was never a normal interrogation. Since the minute they broke into my apartment, they were unnecessarily brusque, aggressive, and they didn’t wait for me to answer any of their questions. They tried to get me to involve other people, people that had nothing to do with me, or Grindelwald as far as I know. I don’t know what else to tell you. Come to see me in Azkaban if you want, and hopefully my left ear won’t be ringing anymore.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“Yeah, just try not to hit the door too much on your way out. It makes the ringing worse.”

“Of course.” He waits until the man is gone, and then summons his crutches. He places his good leg slowly, very slowly on the ground, but it still hurts when it touches it. The floor is cold and hard under his sensible skin, regardless of the bandages and the potions that regenerated it back from the burns as fast as they could.

He makes it to the window, which is only three feet away from his bed, in twenty minutes.

It’s a new record. He feels accomplished.

♠

** _St. Mungo’s Cafeteria, right next to the entrance to the ER. Five minutes later._ **

Seraphina Picquery is a remarkable woman, and Percival Graves has admired her for as long as he’s known her name. His opinion of her has scarcely changed in the nearly fifteen years he’s known her personally, which speaks volumes of her decency and transparency. He doesn’t even mind that much when she does his life unnecessarily complicated.

His trip to Europe stands out, though.

Percival had only left New York City on six determined occasions, and he hadn’t liked either of them. Which Seraphina knew, of course. He is a man of habits who likes his routine, and having it altered tends to leave him on edge. But maybe she thought she was helping, seeing as his routine had already been dramatically altered back at home, when his spouse decided to move out. He tried not to tell anyone, and he still uses his wedding band to this day, but Seraphina was well aware of it nonetheless.

It could be that, or very well be the fact that the case he’s currently working on definitely needs the best Aurors she could gather, and that genuinely includes him. Otherwise his position as Head of Law Enforcement wouldn’t be justified. His career is as flawless as his sentimental life is conflictive. But he tells himself those truths aren’t connected. The one naïveté he allows himself. He cannot afford to be naïve on his line of work, but his personal life can be excused and overlooked.

Or maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe that is the reason Ruby left. But he needs to focus on the case, not on _that_. He’s already memorized all the information, but he needs to be constantly making new connections between the facts. He needs to be prepared for everything. He usually is.

He was a little surprised, however, when he first saw the state Bartemius Crouch Junior was in, even days after he was checked into the hospital. He had seen the memories more than once, knew how his injuries were caused, but he had also spoken with Mr. Spencer-Moon and Newton Scamander; the latter’s interrogation may have been cut short, but the former stayed in custody for far longer than Crouch. Perhaps unconsciously, he’d been expecting to find a man in similar conditions.

He didn’t.

He can rationalize that, of course. Mr. Spencer-Moon, being a public figure, couldn’t portray such obvious injuries. And Newt’s brother Theseus would never allow such a thing be infringed upon him. He knows most of the people interrogated could only share the same luck as Crouch. The fact that the minister didn’t fire the men involved in the interrogation — that he hasn’t fired anyone at all, is very telling. It means the monstrous actions in those leaked memories were nothing out of the ordinary. It means that Spencer-Moon was an exception, almost _lucky_, if it can be said, though it sounds insulting even inside his own head.

It means he needs to finish up quick here and move to the rest of Europe, where things probably aren’t any better, and stop it. Because Grindelwald may be a radical, violent influence; a fugitive that escaped a life sentence after being attributed at least the murder of 200 Aurors and 185 muggles, although not all of those have been proven, and inspiring others to do the same. He can be all that, and Percival understands the need to catch him, but he’s never been accused of torture, not even once. He’s always condemned needless pain infringed upon others and for that, Percival respects him. Because even if it just an act, as a public figure, the kind of things he says _matter _to his followers.

He cannot respect the law enforcers in Great Britain. Not the Aurors and certainly not the Minister.

He can only hope the rest of Europe hasn’t been doing anything similar. His gut tells him they have, though. And he always trusts his gut.

♠

** _Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 29 March 1936._ **

In all his life, Harry cannot remember ever waking up spontaneously early on a Sunday. That’s just something he doesn’t do. His body doesn’t work that way. He’s a heavy sleeper, and not a morning person. And overall, Sundays are meant for sleeping late. So logically, when he finds that around six he just can’t keep his eyes closed, he gets the feeling that something is off.

The first thing he thinks is that something may have happened to his parents, but he dismisses the thought almost immediately. In his last letter, his dad told him there would be a dinner for all of St. Mungo’s personnel and collaborators on Saturday that would probably extend into Sunday’s early morning, and that meant his godparents should be alright as well, if they attended the dinner and stayed the whole night through, which he wholeheartedly hoped for. He then checks quickly and confirms all his friends are asleep on their beds, and sighs. He goes through a mental list of all the people he knows and cares about, and he ends up pressing his pillow over his head because it turns out to be such a terrible idea. Accidents happen all the time, and there’s no way to make sure everyone’s okay. What’s worse, if anything truly happened, he won’t learn of it for a few hours at least.

After one last try to go back to sleep, he decides to get out of bed. He dresses as silently as he can and leaves, first the room, and then the tower altogether. It is eerie at that hour of the day, with the sun slowly creeping on stuff but everything still as silent as a graveyard. He imagines everywhere else in the castle will be the same, so he goes outside, to the lake, where he can pretend people are just somewhere else. He’s almost happy with his plan until he realizes, way too late, that someone else already beat him to it.

And that someone else is Draco Malfoy.

He throws his head back and inwardly curses his bad luck, considering turning in his feet and just leaving, but he decides not to. Malfoy doesn’t own the lake. He can just sit further away. He’s resolute on doing just that until he takes a closer look at the boy, the crumpled piece of paper in his hands, and his shaky shoulders.

And his stomach plummets, just like it did in fourth year, and all of a sudden he’s fourteen again, feeling ridiculous with the hairstyle he managed with the potion his mum sent him, trying to escape a crowded room and tripping over a root to make it all worse. The palms of his hands tingle, for they can still remember the smooth blond hair that for once wasn’t pushed back, back then.

He shakes himself, because thinking of that night is never a good idea, and tries to follow his initial plan, but he just can’t.

Harry bites his bottom lip, subtly looks around making sure there’s no one in hearing range —which of course no one is, since it’s Sunday and not everyone at Hogwarts is as insane as them to be up before seven—, and softly mutters: “Draco? Are you alright?”

The blond freezes, clearly only then noticing he’s not alone, but he doesn’t turn to face him. He simply mumbles, the usual mockery of his tone nowhere to be found: “I’m fine.”

Harry wants to ask if he makes a habit of sitting outside in the cold on Sundays that early. Because no matter the answer, that would definitely mean _he’s not fine_. A ‘no’ would imply something happened. A ‘yes’ would most certainly mean the boy is clinically insane.

He doesn’t ask that, however. He sits down next to him, searches for his eye, nods at the letter Draco’s still holding, and asks instead: “What’s in there?”

“It’s none of your business,” Draco replies coldly, as if trying to push him away with his voice and expression alone.

But Harry doesn’t mind. “Draco.”

The defiance seems to deflate out of him, and he shields his eyes away from Harry’s. “You’ll think it’s stupid,” he confesses weakly.

Harry wants to hug him. And tell him that most of the things he does, he finds stupid. It’s the truth, but he wisely concludes such a statement wouldn’t help. “No, I promise I won’t,” he says instead.

“It’s my mother. She’s just… she’s just apologizing for something she couldn’t do. Again. And…” he swallows, “saying some stuff about my father. That’s all. But she recommended I read it alone, so I came here to do it.”

“What stuff about your father?”

“Nothing you could understand.”

“Draco.”

“Can’t you just go? Whatever are you doing here at this hour, anyway?”

“I had a bad feeling and couldn’t sleep,” he answers honestly, because he knows he won’t be able to find a reasonable excuse, and because he knows what his bad feeling was all about, now.

“You’re so dumb,” Draco says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re dumber.”

“Shut up.”

Harry does, and Draco sighs.

“He thinks he has a chance of becoming Minister.”

“Your father?”

Draco hums. “And mother thinks…” he hesitates, he drops the letter by his side and hugs his knees. “My mum thinks he would make an awful job. I may agree. But I don’t know. If he wants something, he’s probably going to get it. And apparently, he’s been wanting this for a couple of months, now. It will happen.”

“Come on. People would need to vote for him. He can’t just buy the election.”

“He could. But that’s not what I meant. Now that Fawley is not going to run for re-election, his party is apparently going to support Fudge, and that guy…” he grimaces, “is not such a good option. Especially not against someone like Spencer-Moon, who is everyone’s favourite. That’s why my dad is getting on his good side.”

Harry frowns. “And then what?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t know. My mother doesn’t know either. Maybe he’s thinking on the long run, he’ll succeed Spencer-Moon. Hopefully is just that. Or maybe…”

“He’ll find a way to get Spencer-Moon out of the way and run himself.”

Draco nods timidly, ears going red with embarrassment and anger.

Harry sighs tiredly and the lies back on the grass. It’s still fresh in the back of his mind, the way Draco used to idolize his father. He doesn’t know why that stopped. He just knows that at some point during the holidays on their third year, it just did. Blindly, he grabs Draco’s sleeve and pulls until he manages to get him on his back, by his side.

“Maybe we could stop him,” he whispers.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry senses Draco’s head shifting, so he turns to notice they’re now face to face.

“How?” Draco whispers.

“I don’t know yet,” Harry admits, “but I could figure something out.”

Draco bites his bottom lip, and he probably notices the way Harry’s eyes drift towards it, because a second later, he’s doing the same. Most likely, the two are thinking back to the Yule ball, but just as usual, they’re not doing anything about it.

Until they are.

It lasts half a second, the shy, tender touch, and just as fast as he went forward, he’s standing up, waving his wand to make sure there’s no grass on his robes, face as red as a tomato.

Harry hurries to his feet just a moment later, steps on his shoelaces and almost falls to the lake, but he recovers his balance before that happens.

“Wait,” he says, “please. Don’t run again.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Draco lies shamelessly.

Harry arches one eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest. “Really?”

“Well, what do you want? Do you want to talk about it? Merlin, you’re such a girl, Potter.”

“Of course I want to talk about it! You kissed me!”

“Shut up!”

Again, Harry does. But this time, he doesn’t wait for Draco to say something. He fists the front of his robes, pulls him closer, and kisses him properly, like he did back in fourth year. He’s only a bit terrified that Draco won’t kiss him back, but since he does it immediately, Harry relaxes, and decides to enjoy it. He’s a sixteen-year-old boy, and that’s only his fourth kiss, after all, if he counts the miserable one Draco just gave him while they were lying on the grass.

When they separate, they’re both breathless, and there’s no questioning what just happened. Harry smiles like an idiot, because Draco looks positively _delicious_.

“Not a word, Potter. To anyone.”

Harry pouts. “Why not?”

Draco stares at him like he’s crazy. And maybe to him, he is. Draco is an only child, after all, and old magical families in Great Britain, though more accepting than muggles, still have certain issues with same-sex couples. Mostly, they look down on the children of same-sex couples, which Harry finds ridiculous. Blood-adopted children, especially those from a very young age, are just as similar to their adoptive parents as biological children are supposed to be to theirs — and he’s certain of it, for Euphie, his closest real-life example, is the perfect mix of both Sirius and Remus’s traits, despite sharing just Sirius’s DNA.

“You are going to be the death of me, Potter,” Draco whispers, and kisses him again.

Harry is immediately mesmerized, and he almost doesn’t notice how, in between touches, Draco is muttering something.

“Are you cursing me?”

“I’m just making sure you’re going to keep your mouth shut.”

“You’re awful.”

“You’re just as bad.”

Harry sighs. “Fine, if it bothers you so much, I won’t tell anyone. But that means we can do it again, right?”

Draco arches one eyebrow. “It’s not seven yet. Have you got any plans right now, Potter?”

Of course he does. He plans kissing Draco senseless for at least another hour.

♠

** _Gryffindor Tower. Several hours later._ **

In the end, Harry ended up kissing Draco for way over an hour, and they ended up skipping breakfast. Then, they skip lunch as well, and they almost skip dinner. They don’t, though. They sit on different tables and manage not to make eye contact once, and they even go in different directions without saying a thing to each other once it’s time to go to bed. Sleep then evades him, logically, but he does his best to find it. After all, they decided they would see each other early the next day, before breakfast, and he _must _fall asleep if he wants to be more than a zombie by then. However, when sleep is just an inch or so away, there’s a tap on his window. He tries to ignore it, and he succeeds for around fifteen seconds. Then he just has to see it, after clearly no one else in his room seemed to notice it.

It ends up being a silly note from Draco, which of course, wakes him right up. After half an hour of turning around in his bed, he decides to do something productive. He grabs some of his textbooks, a couple of parchments, and goes to the common room to get some of his homework done.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but what’s for sure is that he won’t need to worry about schoolwork for some weeks after, by the time he hears at his back:

“Hey mate,” comes Ron’s voice, “are you going to spend the night here? I just woke up to go to the bathroom and noticed your bed was empty.”

Harry turns to say he’s not tired, but the moment he opens his mouth, a yawn keeps his words from forming, destroying his argument.

“Just come to sleep, Harry.”

Harry nods. “Yes, in a minute. Let me just get my stuff.”

Ron snorts and leaves, decidedly not offering any more help. Which is just fine. Harry still needs a moment. There are many things he has yet to think about, things regarding his parents, the government, Grindelwald and Draco’s father. He promised Draco he would find a way to stop the man, and he intends to keep his word. Because he always does.

Which then makes him think about Professor Dumbledore.

After he heard the professor was supposedly in a new relationship, he’d decided not to drag him down with all his questions and concerns that most certainly would only distract him from the rare happiness he had found. However, after two weeks of willingly biting his tongue, Harry just can’t stand it anymore. He makes a decision, and it may be silly that his mind had to be drowsy with sleep to come up with it, but hey, sometimes it’s best not to know what’s pulling the carriage, right?

It is a small wonder that he has DADA on Mondays, and that he can still remember what he planned by the time he wakes up on the 30th of March.

He waits until everyone else has left the classroom to approach the man that is transfigurating the little creatures they used in the class back into pebbles.

Harry watches in fascination for a few minutes, and he almost forgets he hasn’t yet spoken a single word, until the professor says:

“Is there anything you wanted to ask, Harry? Or do you miss Third Year Transfiguration?”

Harry smiles sheepishly. “I’m not sure a Third Year could do that, Professor.”

Dumbledore hums. “I’m almost certain I could.”

“Didn’t you write your first article for _Transfiguration_ _Today_ in your second year?”

“That’s fair.”

Harry chuckles. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Would you like to move this conversation to my office, then?”

“Very much, yes.”

On the way there, he tries to decide what it is that he wishes to tell him first. The list of questions seemed endless when he thought of it the night before, but right then, he can’t think of a single one. It probably does not help that he only slept around four hours. Still, once he’s sitting in front of the man by his desk, he finds one, and starts:

“What do you believe of Fawley’s administration?”

The professor purses his lips. “I believe the way they’ve been dealing with the crisis has been… questionable.”

Then, it’s like the gates were opened, and words just spill out of him like running water. He speaks of all the things he’s been thinking and worrying about, what little filter he has hanging by a thread at the back of his head, until the words he’s been meaning to swallow find their way out as well.

“I just _hate_ what Aurors are doing,” he confesses. “My dad refused to participate in the interrogations, but he was one of the few who did, and he almost lost his job for it. They’ve kept him from taking any new cases. Did he tell you that?”

“He commented it, yes.”

“And what’s worse is that, I’m not sure he should’ve done that. Maybe if he hadn’t refused, he could’ve done more. But I don’t know.”

“You say, if he had participated of the interrogations and had kept them from escalating?”

“Maybe he could’ve helped one person. That’s still one more person than what he actually did.” He covers his face with his hands and groans. “I’m sorry. That’s awful. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, Harry.”

“Sure, but some things shouldn’t be said out loud.”

“Not to certain people, perhaps. But I’m not judging you.”

“No…” something occurs to him, a crazy idea that should be buried right away, “you’re not.”

As usual, the older man sees right through him. Eyes narrowing, he asks: “What else is on your mind, Harry?”

Harry blushes. “Well… it’s really nothing important. And I promised not to tell anyone, but…” he bites his bottom lip, “actually, what could be the reason for someone wanting to keep a relationship a secret?”

The professor arches his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh. Well, that depends, I guess.”

“We’re just students. Sure, we’re from different houses and all, but we’re sixteen. And it’s 1936, for Merlin’s beard, it’s not like we’re engaged! And we’re two boys, so we can’t even get pregnant!”

“Well, Harry, you’re still underage and spend long periods of time unsupervised. Some parents may not like that. Without mentioning that some people think badly of same-sex relationships, and that could be the case of his parents. Or his friends. Or even himself.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, I know. But keeping it a secret it’s exhausting. And I’ve only been doing it for a day and a half!”

Dumbledore chuckles. “Yes, that is true. I get that.”

Harry smirks. “Well, Professor, do you know what people say these days? Well, since Valentine’s Day anyway.”

The professor frowns. “No? I don’t?”

Harry giggles. “Many students saw you at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop after Valentine’s Day. It didn’t take long for people to deduce that may have something to do with how little time you’ve been spending in the castle lately.”

“Is that so?”

Harry hums. “You really hadn’t noticed?”

Dumbledore shakes his head. “I had no idea.”

“Well, now you know.” He smiles, because the news still makes him particularly happy. “I should go now. I need to get started on an essay for Transfiguration. Don’t tell me you’ll help me if I’ve any doubts, because you’re rarely around here lately. It was good to see you, though. And don’t worry, I’m not actually mad.”

“I can see that.”

Harry chuckles. “Have a good day, Professor.”

“Thank you. You too, Harry.”

Harry’s sure he will. His day is already a lot brighter after speaking with Dumbledore, even if things haven’t really changed. His mind is clearer, and he feels reassured in his position.

♠

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. _ ** ** _Two hours later._ **

“Something good happened?” Gellert asks as soon as he sees him arrive, from his chair by the dresser.

Albus’s grin only grows wider. “Yeah.” He bends and kisses him a little more passionately than their regular greetings. “Something good.”

He’d known people speculated about his absence, of course, but he hadn’t expected they would connect it to Phineas’ visit, all those weeks ago. It makes sense.

And what’s even better, it means he can relax, just a little, and maybe even mention Gellert —without saying his name, of course— from time to time.

And that’s just wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I didn’t tag the Draco/Harry in this story, and I’m sorry if they’re not to your liking. Maybe I should tag it? At the beginning I didn’t because I wasn’t sure about it, and there were a few couples I wasn’t going to tag anyway because it would ruin some surprises —some are yet to come— but maybe that’s not the case with them? I don’t know. What do you guys think?


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delay! These past weeks my college resumed examinations (normally where I live, summer vacation starts on December and classes restart on March, but that’s a small price to pay for all the protests) and I’ve been too busy with that to write even a line, but the good news is that after Tuesday I’ll only have one class left for a loooooong time so I’ll try to post a new chapter every few days. Maybe every three or so? Would you like that? I'll do my best!
> 
> Also, thanks a lot to Xivilai and Aiflenoif for answering my last question! I'm still not entirely sure about tagging it, but since no one came to tell me they were bothered, I think I'll leave it as a surprise for future readers :)

** _Paris, France. 2 April 1936._ **

When Peter Abernathy first heard he’d be going with Mr. Graves to Europe as part of his group, he felt both excited and nervous. Definitely an intimidating task, he would have to prove he was the right choice for the job, even if he _wasn’t_. But he was still excited, extremely honoured for even being considered and just happy with the chance to travel outside of the country — which he’d never done; he’d never even left his home state before. The furthest he’d ever been from his parents’ home had been Ilvermorny, which wasn’t even that far.

But then, as he started getting his things ready for the trip, he realized another major point of what going to Europe could entail: he could help search for Queenie.

He hadn’t seen Queenie since she moved to London in 1929, but he’d been hopelessly in love with her for a decade prior and his feelings had hardly weakened. When Porpentina wrote to him asking if he had seen her, he worried sick, literally, and couldn’t work for three days. The idea of looking for her filled him with strength. He obviously expected it to be a difficult mission and didn’t dare to meet the witch’s sister while he was on England, not wanting to give her any hopes, so when he sees the woman in Paris by coincidence, he can hardly believe his eyes.

“Queenie?” he asks, half expecting he’ll just be corrected by a stranger.

“Mr. Abernathy? What a surprise!” she smiles brightly at him. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“I’m working. With Mr. Graves. But what are you doing here? Queenie, your sister has been worried sick about you! We all are!”

Her face falls, and he wishes to take his words back immediately, but he doesn’t. He can’t. And he shouldn’t. They’re the truth. He rubs the back of his neck, shifts in his feet, and eventually suggests they find a place to sit and talk. He’s never been the best at small talk, but Queenie is remarkable at it, and she appeases his mind in that foreign land, despite everything. For a while, it almost seems like all is well, like they’re old friends and eventually they’ll part ways without an inch of awkwardness. But he screws it eventually, for he cannot forget that the girl in front of him is basically a missing person, to her only family, at least. He just needs to ask her when she is going to go back to them.

“I like being here,” she replies vaguely, voice growing sweeter even as her stance turns subtly defensive. “I made some friends. I’m not lonely.”

“But, but what about your sister? And your boyfriend?”

Queenie averts her eyes suspiciously, lips pursed, and agitated, she says: “You don’t need to be concerned with that, do you?”

“Porpentina is tremendously worried about you, you know? You could at least let her know you’re okay.”

“I have. I sent her a postcard.”

He wishes to argue, but he knows it is not his place, so he sighs. “That’s… that’s good. Have a good day, Queenie. It was lovely to see you, but I should go back to the hotel.”

She seems relieved to be free of him, and he tries to not take offense by the fact. He wishes he could be more understanding, but it’s difficult. Especially because he cannot imagine making friends in a foreign country so easily. And with that terrible accent of hers! When they stopped for some pastries, he ended up ordering for them because the cashier couldn’t understand her!

But well, he figures that if anyone could accomplish such a thing, it certainly would be someone like Queenie.

He goes back to the hotel, and it doesn’t occur to him to mention the encounter to Mr. Graves.

♠

** _Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 3 April 1936._ **

“I can’t believe you already finished all your assignments,” comments Ron while struggling to accommodate his parchments on his suitcase. “You’ll be able to relax for two weeks, and I’ll be stuck at home trying to focus while my sister messes with the ghoul in the attic just to bother me.”

Harry chuckles under his breath and folds his arms beneath his head. His bed is rarely made before lunch time, thus lying on top of a straight blanket feels slightly odd. “You can come study at my place if you want,” he offers.

“Yes! I’ll do that. I’ll definitely do that.”

“Great,” he replies sincerely. His house always feels a little bit empty on his second and third day back. He loves going home, he misses his parents greatly, but after so long in school, privacy feels strange and the silence in his bedroom at all hours is eerie. Every year, he ends up missing his friends embarrassingly quickly.

The main difference this year would be that he hasn’t been so much in his room at school on the last few days, but that’s just another reason he’s feeling anxious about the holidays.

He isn’t sure he’ll get to see Draco at all in the next two weeks, and that frustrates him. On the other hand, the possibility of meeting him alone, with space and time to themselves, without needing to worry about the wrong people walking into them is just exhilarating. He’s so entertained with his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the weird mood that takes over Ron as he finishes packing.

He first looks around, confirming once again they’re the only ones around, and asks: “Are you okay, mate?”

Ron sighs, and he looks absolutely defeated. As if he’d just lost an important Quidditch game by over three hundred points. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Harry frowns. “Sure. That’ll reassure me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Ronald,” he snaps, in the way he learned from Molly which always impressed him when he was younger and isn’t surprised when it works.

Ron still looks hesitant, but he sits down on his bed in front of Harry and starts talking.

“Hermione is going away these two weeks to Spain with her parents, and she told me it was best if I didn’t write, because they’ll be staying at a muggle place, and all.” He scratches the top of his head a little brusquely. “What sort of lousy excuse is that? If she just wanted to take a break from me she could’ve just said so.”

“Ron, don’t be ridiculous, Hermione doesn’t want to take a break from you!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She wouldn’t be with you if she didn’t like you. She’s not that kind of person.”

“I know that. But maybe she changed her mind. Or maybe she grew bored of me. Or maybe—”

“Ronald, listen to me. Hermione _adores _you. You’ve got nothing to worry about. If she’s telling you that receiving letters in a muggle hotel in another country makes her uneasy, then that’s the truth.” He’s convinced of it. He’s bewildered by Ron’s admittance, because he never could’ve guessed anyone would ever doubt such a thing about her, and to him, their feelings for each other have been obvious for years already. He makes a mental note to check on Ron every day for the holidays, if not personally, then by letter —because Ronald may be his best friend in the entire world, but he _really _wants to spend at least one day completely alone with Draco— and maybe mention it to Molly if all that unexplainable anxiety doesn’t go away.

But at least when it comes the time to go home, he looks a lot more like himself. It probably helps that Hermione is there with them on the train, and that they’re wrapped around each other the entire trip, but Harry gives them space to say goodbye to each other, he promises to visit the Burrow soon, and then he goes back to his parents’ house with a clean conscience. Once there, most of his worries vanish, even though his dad has to testify in court on a tricky trafficking case and leaves almost as soon as they arrive. On the hallway between the stairs and the living room, he looks around like he always does when he comes from school, and he smiles. He doesn’t need to look to know his mum is standing right at his side, and he doesn’t think twice before turning and burying his face in the crook of her neck. He recognizes the perfume she’s wearing as one of the many she has done on accident, which makes him giggle.

“It’s great to be home,” he says, hugging her tightly.

Lily hums and wraps her arms around him, breathing him in, and wishing they could stay like that just a little longer, like when he was younger. “It’s great to have you home, honey,” she mutters.

She’s such a great actress, that Harry never notices the worry on her voice.

♠

** _Wiltshire, England. 4 April 1936._ **

“Mum? Is father not going to join us for lunch?” Draco asks as he sits down on the long table, which until then had only been occupied by his mother.

She shakes her head, features tensing for merely a second to conceal whatever emotion she’s feeling. All her son can see is fake, and he knows it. But he’s used to it, and it almost doesn’t bother him.

“No,” she says, “he had a previous commitment at the ministry. But he should be back for dinner.”

“I see,” he replies coldly. It doesn’t make him sad, it only makes him angry. But he knows that a few years back it would’ve destroyed him.

He isn’t sure his father has noticed the difference. But he hopes his mother has. He just can’t tell.

Despite his anger, he can admit that it’s probably for the best it’s just the two of them. With his father on the table, conversation is often scarce, but then his mother asks him all about his semester; not simply his assignments but his friends and his opinion on the teachers and the things he’s liked to learn. And like little times in that room, Draco feels content.

Draco doesn’t like his house anymore. He used to love it. But he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel comfortable knowing the things he does now. Not when some memories are still so lucid on his mind. Not even if he tries burying them under many brighter ones.

He’s considered bringing Harry many times already, but he keeps changing his mind. He almost asks his mum about it during lunch, but he bites his tongue. He knows he could do it without anyone noticing. And the manor certainly has hidden away enough scandals that could destroy the family’s reputation a thousand times in every generation, but he isn’t sure he wants to add Harry to that list. He hates the idea of him being on the same category of all the others that have caused so much harm.

And just like that, he’s thinking of all those things he saw again, and he’s not hungry anymore.

He knows his mother notices, but he’s too upset to truly appreciate it as he excuses himself to go to his bedroom. Which is very grey. Almost too grey. But at least the green of the curtains reminds him of Harry’s eyes.

He hesitates for less than a second before he begins composing a letter for him.

But once he finishes it, he doesn’t send it.

♠

** _Paris, France. 6 April 1936._ **

There are many effects to discovering someone is secretly listening to one’s conversations. There’s anger, and the very rational hesitation before letting a single word out. There’s also the desire to use the invasion against the transgressors somehow. For that one, however, one must be very careful and intelligent as to not give it away. Which shouldn’t be a problem for someone like Gellert, of course, but the time isn’t right just yet. Besides, there is some additional stress of his acolytes who, while unaware of the spying charm, may let something slip that Gellert wouldn’t want Riddle knowing, and that fear races his heart each time any of them opens their mouth. His studio is now just another place where he needs to be extra mindful of his words and the ones everyone else is saying, and for that he even changed some of the furniture.

He considered having the meetings somewhere else, explain it all to his acolytes, and then pretend they’re still using it to keep Riddle tricked, but it just isn’t worth the trouble. Not yet anyway. And thus, the meeting that Monday begins as usual.

“Spain’s muggle politics have been quite unstable as of lately,” says Carrow.

“They had elections recently,” says Nagel. “Still, Minister of Magic Torralba has a very good opinion of Azaña, the new Head of State.”

“Are the Americans going to go there, too?” Vinda asks.

“Yes,” says Krafft. “Later this week, actually. I believe they should arrive in Madrid this Friday.”

“Should we postpone our plans, then?” asks MacDuff.

“No,” Gellert replies right away. “I doubt they’ll cause any real trouble. And if the internal politics are messy, that only means muggles will be more receptive to our message.”

Also, even if Hitler knows of their plans, there won’t be much for him to do. It must be Spain, and it must be on the day they chose. Gellert won’t allow any changes.

“But the authorities may react faster than what we’ve predicted.”

“They won’t,” Gellert assures categorically. Because he knows that much. His visions were clear. He ignores the little voice inside his head that sounds too much like Albus and reminds him of the statistics that have never meant much to him. He knows his visions aren’t absolutes, of course. But they’re far more accurate than any divination book may lead one to believe.

Albus was always a bit of a sceptic, from before they met and maybe more in the years after. He never doubted Gellert truly saw things, but he was always reluctant to believe any of his visions would ever come true. And when it came to other people, he turned even more cynic and incredulous.

But as Gellert enters his bedroom in Paris to find him there, lying on a bed with silk purple sheets he had seen before in a time where his mattress was thin and rough over the cold concrete, he smiles, and he just knows that the rest of his visions are going to come true one day, too.

“Do you remember the first time I had a vision in front of you?” he asks, sending his jacket away and stepping out of his shoes.

Albus raises his head from the documents he was reading and arches his eyebrows. “Of course I do. How could I ever forget? It was way too shocking. You hadn’t told me you were a Seer, so I had no idea what was going on. Also, it was the very first time I went down on you, and your participation was crucial for what little confidence I had.”

Gellert snorts. “And you were doing such a great job! I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“I was mortified! I thought I had done something wrong!” Albus shakes his head, with a look of utter indignation on his face. With a distracted flicker of his wand, he rearranges the parchments on their original order and sends them flying into a different room. He then leans back against the pillows without bothering to check if they reached their destination safely. “What did you See, anyway? I don’t think you ever told me.”

Gellert purses his lips. He remembers it well, although it had been a short one. One of the happy, fleeting ones that left a subtle aftertaste of content and warmth. “I Saw you,” he confesses.

“Really? Where? Doing what?”

“You were laughing. You had this haircut, though your beard was slightly whiter. And we were on a forest, I believe, but I couldn’t tell where exactly it was. I’ve never been there, and I haven’t Seen it again.”

Albus hums and strokes his beard. “And it could still come true, then?”

Gellert nods. “It could.” He knows it will. He hasn’t found the forest yet, but he isn’t worried. He knows they will, eventually. Most of the short ones do.

He straddles Albus, tangles his fingers on his short hair, and joins their lips for a short moment before he whispers just over them: “But you know what? I think we should test a theory.”

“What theory?”

“Could imitating the circumstances in which I’ve had a vision allow me to See it again?”

Albus licks his lips before turning them on the bed playfully, kissing his way down until his face is at the level of his target.

“Let’s test it, then,” he says, before tugging the zipper of Gellert's pants down with his teeth.

In the end, they test it twice.

♠

** _‘Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes’, 93 Diagon Alley, London, England. 7 April 1936._ **

“Brilliant,” whispers Harry, watching the twins’ latest invention. It is early after breakfast, but neither is sleepy after the display, as it often happens to everyone who enters the shop, where inattentiveness can turn dangerous.

“Right? We’re hoping we’ll sell quite a few of them before they get banned,” says George.

“Because let’s accept it, it’s definitely going to get banned within a month,” adds Fred, grinning wickedly.

Harry and Ron exchange a knowing look before bursting in laughter. They don’t need to answer that; no one has a doubt. But they’ll likely make good money out of it for the little time they get to sell it — and more than enough laughs to make it all worth it.

“There’s something else I think you guys should see,” says George, nodding towards the stairs that lead to their studio. They still have about half an hour before the shop opens, but they’d do well in hurrying, since early demonstrations of any Weasley products could very easily end up in disaster.

“Already? Are you sure?” asks Fred, looking slightly worried.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”

Harry is tempted to say ‘no, thank you’, but he follows without complaint, if only a grimace, just like Ron does. Still he sighs with relief when, right before George can open the door the cursed room where many —now illegal— wonders have been born, a saccharine voice says at their backs:

“Don’t you dare bring anyone who isn’t ready to die in there, George Weasley.”

It is Cedrella Black, George’s girlfriend and a distant cousin of Sirius, and she gives them a candid smile in spite of her drained face. There are bags under her eyes and her lips are chopped. She looks even worse than she had back when she had been taking her N.E.W.T.’s. “Hello boys, it’s great to see you.”

“Hey, Ella,” Ron smiles back at her, clearly just as relieved as Harry. “Is it really that dangerous?”

She nods. “If only you breathe wrong the thing explodes. If they manage to fix that, it’ll be awesome. But so far? Keep it far away from me, thank you very much.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Harry tells her.

“Don’t mention it,” she winks an eye at him, and she looks a lot like her cousin just then.

But she reminds him of another who carries the blood of the house of Black, one that lately always makes his heart beat faster. If he must be honest, he’s done that to him for quite a while, but he was very good at ignoring it and explaining it away. He doesn’t want to do that anymore, though. It makes him happy, even if he must keep it a secret. He considers, just for a moment, talk about it with Ella, who must be the only one currently on the shop who could ever understand it — or maybe George. But he can’t bring himself to do it, not when he hasn’t even told his parents. His conversation with Dumbledore was enough to ease his mind for a little while, but now that the Professor isn’t anywhere near, his words are starting to fade. He wants to write to Draco, but he fears that if he hasn’t written to him first, it’s because he doesn’t want, or he cannot get in touch with him. He doesn’t want to ruin things.

He remembers Ron’s fears and concludes they’re in no way similar to his. Still, if he gives the boy half of his dessert and helps him finish all his essays on top of giving him a quiet place to do it, no one can judge him.

♠

** _Godric’s Hollow, England. 10 April 1936._ **

In all the years that Albus has gone back to that little house with no one but Aberforth in it, they’ve only had breakfast together on counted, special occasions. The Easter holidays do not qualify. And thus, he never stops to imagine he would need to find excuses to not be around in the mornings until his world is just an inch from ending, when the minute he exits his bedroom —one where he most definitely did not sleep in, and after he showered and ate with Gellert in Paris— he hears his brother’s voice yelling from downstairs:

“Al, are you finally up? Come out, I need your help with something.”

“Okay!”

He knows he doesn’t sound panicky, but he definitely is. He doesn’t even know if he could get away with telling his brother he already showered. He doesn’t know what Aberforth has been doing, mostly because he doesn’t have the least idea of what his brother does most of the time. Maybe saying he just woke up _is _the best option.

He’s an adult, and his brother isn’t the most considerate person. They’re not close. He can do what he wants, good or bad, and his brother won’t bat an eye, won’t even ask. But even in a relationship like theirs, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. And one of those, perhaps the only one, is Gellert. And of course, no one would just assume that because he went out one night then he was actually out with Gellert Grindelwald, except…

Aberforth would. Albus knows he would. So he decides that saying he just woke up is the best he can do, and in the end he doesn’t say anything. He simply says hello. Aberforth doesn’t make a single question; he honestly just wants Albus’s help with a tractor that’s malfunctioning and scaring off the goats each time he tries to use it.

It only takes Albus a minute to figure out what’s wrong with it, and the solution requires a simple charm that is monotonous yet lengthy to cast and must be done by the two of them, so as he does just that, his mind starts to wander into places it most definitely shouldn’t go in the present company. But his mind is just as disobedient as he is.

After a while, Aberforth stops doing his part and stares at him with a frown. “What is it with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just struggling with an experiment I left unfinished back at Hogwarts, and…”

“Ah,” his brother rolls his eyes and his attention goes back to the heavy machinery. “Should’ve known it was something like that. For a moment there I worried it had something to do with the thing Elphias mentioned you’re doing this weekend.”

“Elphias mentioned it to you?”

Aberforth shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah. I asked him to keep me up to date with that kind of stuff.”

“Why?”

He gets no answer, which by now isn’t surprising but it’s still as irritating as it was back when they were children.

Albus has never truly understood his little brother. There was a time in which he thought him simple, but he realized he was wrong by the time he was thirteen. He lost all hope to ever decipher the way his mind works a long time ago, but every now and then he wonders if he ever could, if he tried hard enough.

He doesn’t think so. Hence, he doesn’t even try anymore.

And his mind is busy anyway. He hadn’t been worrying about the _thing _the Custodians have planned for the weekend before, but now that he’s been reminded of it, he certainly is.

♠

** _Salcombe, Devon, England. 12 April 1936._ **

For Grindelwald’s third rally, the _Custodians_ are ready.

The failure from February is still fresh in their minds, and they’re all eager to jump into action. It is clear on the air, and thanks to their more than competent spies, they managed to craft a fairly decent plan that shouldn’t expose them.

“Remember,” says Moody, “we are mostly going there to make sure no one gets hurt. It’s unlikely we’ll get the chance to arrest him, since he’ll be in such a visible muggle place, but at least we’ll manage to ensure the safety of those nearby, and hopefully we’ll find a way to keep muggles away to avoid exposure of our community. We clear?”

The chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ is loud around James, and he represses a smile, but squeezes Lily’s hand. Six minutes later, they go their separate ways to try to cover more terrain — she turns right with Peter and Amelia, whereas James keeps straight with Remus and Sirius.

“Any chance we can just keep people far enough that they can’t hear?” asks Sirius.

James shakes his head. “I doubt it, I…” he stops walking suddenly and narrows his eyes. “Wait. You see that guy?” he subtly gestures with his chin towards a man standing by a lamppost across the street. “He was one of the guys on the picture Edgar sent me. He told me that others would be scattered throughout town to amplify the words. I imagine he must be here to do just that.”

“We can’t just attack him,” reasons Remus. “They’d wonder how we knew.”

“We could wait until he’s actually doing it,” says Sirius, taking a couple of steps back, looking around, and eventually leaning against a wall. “Let’s stay here. You all remember what Dumbledore taught us last week?”

“Make our patronuses speak? Yeah,” says James, “but around here I’m not sure it’ll be a good idea.”

“This is why you shouldn’t have given Harry the cloak,” says Sirius, brow furrowing. “We could’ve used it today.”

“Can you imagine what Hogwarts would’ve been like without it? Besides, glowing, speaking figures of light would definitely draw attention to them, even if we were under the cloak.”

“I’ve got an idea,” says Remus. “Keep an eye out for muggles. Stop messing around.”

Normally, James and Sirius would argue that’s not what they’re doing. And they’re about to do just that when a group of muggles appear just a few meters away from them, exiting a store, and their conversation is abruptly terminated in order to implement Remus’s idea.

Just about fifteen blocks from there another group is also facing a wizard who is supposed to amplify Gellert’s words, but their plan is slightly different, and neither Peter nor Amelia tell Lily all the ways it could go wrong. They simply do it. And maybe that’s not what goes wrong. Maybe if others had tried it, it would’ve worked. But the person that tries to distract the follower of Grindelwald isn’t someone else. It’s Peter. And he doesn’t do a good job under pressure.

His idea is not bad —getting a bird to steal the man’s hat and a different one to get his wand after the initial distraction—, he just fails in executing it, which ends up in the wizard noticing them.

“Peter, come on!” Lily hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards her back into the alley where she and Amelia are standing.

It is too late, though. The wizard has seen them. But there are muggles all around them, and Peter freezes, unsure of what to do next. He knows the man is coming for them, he sees him. But maybe that’s a good thing? If the man is chasing them, he won’t be amplifying Grindelwald’s words. He decides he should run, however his legs do not respond him, and the wizard is just about to reach them. Peter wants to cry, but his body doesn’t even do that. When the wizard is near enough, he just closes his eyes, waiting for a hit that never comes. When he opens his eyes again, they’re in a different ally, and there are no muggles around them.

“Thank you so much, Professor Dumbledore!” says Lily, who still looks scared. “I don’t think we could’ve escaped the man and the muggles without your help.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Peter mumbles, even though he has no idea how the man helped them. He just knows that he didn’t fuck everything up thanks to him.

Dumbledore gives him a gentle smile. “It’s okay.”

“But the wizard saw us! He knows people were trying to stop them!”

“Nothing you did could suggest that you’re not working with one of the many governments that are after them. Don’t beat yourself over it.”

“Professor Dumbledore is right,” says Lily, although she looks defeated. “I guess even this plan wasn’t as good as we thought it was.”

Peter shakes his head. “The problem wasn’t the plan. The problem was me!”

“Come on. Grindelwald is speaking right now. Let’s see if we can drive some of his audience away.”

Peter just wants to go home. He’s tired, embarrassed, and scared. But he follows the professor, and he feels almost useful as he manages to obliviate two wizards and convince them they were on their way to their hotel. He knows someone else in his group could’ve done it just as well, if not better, but at least he did _something_ he can tell by the time they need to go back to Salcombe.

“How did it go for you?” Moody asks. His hair is dishevelled and his jacket is dusty, but no one expects him to elaborate on his experience before they admit how it was for them.

James shakes his head. “We barely did a thing.”

“We kept the incredible number of four people away from his speech,” says Sirius, looking irritated.

“Well, that’s more than us, actually,” says Hestia.

Amelia nods. “We managed to send away about six individuals; four muggles and two wizards. But we only did it because Professor Dumbledore helped us.”

Moody wants to blow up something, but he waits until he’s all alone to do it. He’d known their chance was small, of course, but their defeats against Grindelwald are only piling up and he’s growing tired with every passing day. He just hates being on the losing side.

♠

** _Bogatell Beach, Barcelona, Spain. Two hours earlier._ **

In spite of all her best efforts, by the time Hermione and her family leave on a short vacation for the Easter holidays, she has no idea how she’s going to make it to Grindelwald’s next rally. She read everything she thought could be important, deduced seven different patterns that could connect the last locations and the content of the speeches delivered at each place, and even tried identifying any sympathizers that may be attending Hogwarts, but she had no luck. It’s infuriating, and it distracts her from the amazing weather and even from the tense atmosphere in most muggle places.

Nevertheless, she’s not distracted enough as to miss the witch on the muggle beach, narrowly avoiding their eyes as she shamelessly cleans the sand off her humid skin by simply hovering his palms over her legs and arms without actually touching them, as she gathers her things to go.

It takes her a moment, but Hermione recognizes the woman as one who had been standing the closest to Grindelwald in Christmas Eve. She may be wrong, she knows, but her gut tells her she’s right. And sure, the woman could be there simply on vacation or something else, but something is screaming in Hermione’s head that she cannot miss her. Not a witch that is all alone in a muggle beach, practically waiting to be discovered. Thus, she mumbles an excuse to her parents and starts following the woman.

She follows her straight into a multitude that feels all too familiar.

It is a coincidence, a ridiculous, unbelievable coincidence, and she can hardly accept it.

But _of course_ Grindelwald is going to speak from the _Basílica de la Sagrada Familia_. It makes so much sense, and it was one of the many possibilities in three of the seven patterns she speculated on, but she’s reluctant to believe her luck, and she’s shocked into a stunned silence for the duration of the speech, as all she can do is listen.

But then he’s leaving, way too fast, and she’s going to miss him again, and she won’t have the same luck in the future, she knows she won’t. She—

She notices the woman from the beach again, wielding her wand and probably about to disapparate, so before she can do it, Hermione yells:

“Excuse me!”

The woman isn’t startled at all, which confirms Hermione’s suspicion that she had known she was being followed all along.

“Hello,” she gives Hermione a flirty smile, “how can I help you?”

Hermione blushes. “Well, I…” she bites her bottom lip and hesitates. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she just knows that she cannot just watch them go.

The woman’s expression turns into a curious one. “Are you intrigued by our message?”

“I am fascinated,” she admits, even though everything inside of her is telling her that she shouldn’t, that she should run far away and maybe give the woman’s description to the authorities. She knows she won’t do it, and she hopes the woman can see it.

The woman’s smile turns smug. “He does that to people, doesn’t he?” She sighs and then offers her a small, black card. “If you wish to support our movement and come to the next event, keep that close. It’ll bring you to us when the time is right.”

And that’s everything Hermione wants, although she only realizes it then, once she’s holding it, and she feels satisfied. She barely notices the woman leaving, although her fingers are still tingling from the small brush against hers. It’s not a problem she didn’t bring her bag, for she has no intention of ever leaving the card somewhere she cannot feel it. She slips it under her bodice and waits for her heartrate to slow down before she makes her way back to her parents.

♠

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France. 13 April 1936._ **

When he meets Gellert after Easter, Albus knows, deep down, that he’s making a mistake. But he’s had that feeling the whole break, and he’s learned to ignore it. He knows he should leave early — maybe even before sunrise, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. That flat in Paris feels a lot more like home than the little house in Godric’s Hollow ever has.

“Reporters are having a hard time trying to make you look bad after yesterday,” he comments after breakfast as he reads one of the many newspapers that are delivered to Gellert’s bedroom every morning, pulling a face that attempts to be reproachful, but is way too fond to have that effect.

“I find it difficult to feel bad for reporters, to be honest. Most people I’ve met with that profession have turned out to be dreadful. I think there’s a pattern.”

“That’s got to be a stretch,” he says as he takes a seat by Gellert’s side on the divan that used to be on the studio.

“No, not at all.” He smiles lopsidedly and places his elbow on the backrest. “Do you happen to know anything about the many organized British civilians that tried to sabotage me?”

Albus sighs.

“I know you kept them at bay. Thank you for that.”

Albus shakes his head. “I should’ve done more, but I had to be careful.”

“You did enough,” replies Gellert, holding his hand and dropping a tender kiss on it, his beautiful mismatched eyes staring openly at his.

Albus always loses track of time with that view. It’s inevitable. It’s a small mercy that he comes to his senses eventually. “I should go back. It’s getting late. Any of these days Aberforth is going to knock on my door…”

Gellert sighs and closes his eyes. “Yes, I understand.”

Albus kisses him. His intention is to get up a second later, but he doesn’t even try when Gellert’s arms wrap around his neck.

It is his fault. He was foolish. He should’ve known that it isn’t just his eyes that make him lose track of time. It is everything.

He doesn’t make it back to England until ten in the morning. He apparates into his room, and his brother is waiting for him sitting on the chair by his desk. To Albus’s knowledge, Aberforth has never been inside his bedroom before. It is almost sad that he looks like he belongs there, a lot more than Albus has ever felt.

“Where were you?” Aberforth asks casually, as if Albus could ever believe he’s not furious.

“Out,” says Albus, tensely, “I needed some fresh air.”

“You didn’t come home last night.”

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Where were you, Albus?”

“Ab—”

“Just tell me you weren’t with him.”

Albus’s throat closes, and even though he wants to lie, he can’t. He can’t make a single sound, and his brother knows. Just like that, he’s certain of it. Albus is expecting an outrage, but the sheer disappointment in his brother’s face is somehow worse.

“Was this the first time?”

He wants to say yes. He doesn’t mind if he’s lying. He knows Aberforth won’t be able to read his mind. He’s sure that he could pull it off. He genuinely _wants_ to lie, but he can’t open his mouth, and he panics when he notices that his eyes are beginning to water.

Wordlessly, Aberforth gets up and leaves the room. He doesn’t even slam the door on his way out.

And Albus cries. He covers his face with his hands and he wails, there where he’s standing. He doesn’t close the door, doesn’t sit down, he simply cries.

He’s startles into silence for half a second when strong arms wrap around him, but he recognizes them like one would recognize one’s limb in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know how the pendant knew to bring him to Paris when he never thought of it, but he doesn’t care. He’s grateful. He doesn’t stop crying, but he buries his face in the crook of Gellert’s neck and the pain reduces considerably. He’s faintly aware that Gellert moves them to the bed, but he couldn’t tell how long they lie there, in each other’s arms. It is where he feels the safest, and eventually, the tears just stop. He worries they’ll come back as soon as he starts talking, though, so he keeps his mouth shut, and Gellert doesn’t ask.

And for what are probably hours, they don’t talk.

Not until Gellert says: “I’ll be going to Istanbul next week.”

“Oh.”

It’s almost as if he’s just waking up from a bad dream that he’s quickly forgetting only to hear some terrible news.

He doesn’t say he’s thinking about the last time Gellert had intended to take his movement there, the first time they almost arrested him, and he murdered 30 Aurors — the first time he ever spilled magical blood. He’d been twenty years old and escaped without a scratch. He’d written to Albus that night, confessing that he’d hoped it wouldn’t be different from killing muggles since they were the enemy, but it had affected him almost as badly as the few times followers of his had been killed.

He doesn’t say it because he knows they’re both thinking about the same thing.

“Do you know how long you will be there?”

“No,” he swallows, “I plan to move from there towards other countries in east Europe and Asia. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to France in a while. Not for a couple of weeks, to say the least. Maybe more.”

“Oh.”

Gellert licks his lips and eyes the chain around Albus’s neck that disappears under his robes, which he knows has a symbol of the hallows hanging from it, hidden away, but always, always in touch with his skin.

“That pendant is linked to this room, regardless of my presence in it. Writing to you while I’m on the road could be difficult so I’ll try not to, but if I ever absolutely need to contact you, I’ll send a letter to this room.”

“Okay.”

“Albus,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Ten heartbeats. And then:

“Gellert.”

“Yes?”

“Come back to me as soon as you can.”

“I promise, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, and to think that on my first draft, they didn’t get together until AFTER Gellert came back from his (long) trip. Good thing I changed it, eh? I really liked my first draft of the scene after Aberforth finds out, but I had to take out pretty much all of it because they weren’t together yet so Gellert comforting Albus was a lot of a bigger, bolder deal for them.
> 
> On another note, do any of you know where I got the title from? Not the meaning it has on the story; I’m planning on explaining that further within this. But it is a direct quote from somewhere, and I was curious if any of you had noticed. There’s a clue on Chapter 9.
> 
> I was thinking we could play a game. I like throwing references to things throughout my stories. It would be fun to check if you can find them in the future, and if you do, there could be some rewards! But let's see if any of you recognize the title first ;)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter because of the delay! Sorry!
> 
> If it helps, not even my shrink knows what's wrong with me.

** _Godric’s Hollow, England. 14 April 1936._ **

Around noon, Aberforth returns to his house with a knot on his stomach that only eases down once he’s confirmed that his brother isn’t there. For the better part of twenty-four hours, he’s been deliberating on whether he should call Elphias or not, and he’s no closer to figure it out as he was the moment Albus appeared in front of him the day before.

Just thinking back to the expression on his face as he realized he’d been discovered fills Aberforth with rage. He’d wanted to punch him. But simply walking out felt more satisfactory. Albus may be unreadable to most, but not to Aberforth. Never to Aberforth.

And he knows the same cannot be said if their roles were reversed. But he never tires of surprising his big brother, and he knows he did when he walked out. He knows it probably hurt him more than a physical punch ever would. Besides, the sooner he left that bedroom the better. He’s always hated it. That bedroom has never felt like it belonged to his brother. Not once in over forty years. But Albus always stood out in that house, wherever he went. And that’s why Aberforth could always tell the second he arrived. The air just turned stranger, electric, as if waiting for a storm to begin. Which always made sense to him. Storms always liked to follow his brother around.

“If you’re here to make excuses for what you’re doing, I don’t want to hear it,” he says, without the need to turn around to know his brother is standing right behind him.

“I’m not,” Albus argues, and when Aberforth turns, he looks almost as if he’s trying to stand firmer.

Aberforth shrugs. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure I don’t want to hear it either.”

It lasts less than a second, but Aberforth still notices the way his brother’s face tenses with unrevealed irritation. He knows his brother is thinking he’s being childish, and he knows those words will never come out of his mouth. They wouldn’t on a normal day, much less when he’s trying to apologize.

Sometimes, only briefly, he wishes he could have it all back; the big words, the petulance and boyish arrogance sparkled with superiority and pointless competitiveness. Momentarily, he longs to have his big brother, the boy who disappeared at some point when he left for Hogwarts and Aberforth didn’t, back.

“You don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t need to hear the details.”

“Would you like hearing that I won’t be seeing him again any time soon?”

“You really think I’m going to believe that?”

“You should. He’s going to Asia, who knows for how long. But I’m going to stay here.”

“Asia, really?”

Albus hums.

“Good,” he nods. “Hopefully the Aurors wherever he’s going will be more competent and kill him. I wouldn’t even need knowing about it. Just him never returning would be enough… ah, right, the break isn’t finished yet. Are you going to stay here, or…?”

“I think I should go back to Hogwarts now.”

Aberforth laughs shortly, humourless and cold. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

He wants the sad man gone. Not because of the pitiful picture he makes, but because he knows the only reason he’s sad is because Aberforth mentioned the possibility of that monster dying.

Aberforth really wants to punch his brother again. Just to get a reaction out of him, to wake him up. His brother is supposed to be the smart one, and yet… He shakes his head and goes on with his day. He decides not to call Elphias. He is pretty sure he would give it all away and that would just make everything even more complicated. Merlin, he really hates the damn Gellert Grindelwald. People call him a radical, but Aberforth thinks he’s just a robber. First, he robbed him of his brother, then he robbed him of his sister, his good conscience, his inner peace, his emotional stability, and now… now he’s once again robbing him of what little human connections he values. Son of a hag.

Sometimes he thinks that if he could just see Gellert Grindelwald leaving for once and for all, he could have some closure. He doesn’t even need the man dead or in jail —although that certainly would help— he just wants to see him leave Godric’s Hollow for _good_, with no intention of ever returning. He wants to hear him say he’ll be out of his face for good, and see him disappear, without taking anything else with him. Sure, he belongs in jail for sure, the robber, but just watching him go for once after promising to never come back would be pretty much cathartic.

Then again, to have such a view, he would need to _see _the man back in Godric’s Hollow first, which is a mere inch short of his worst nightmare.

Still he doesn’t scream in fear nor pain when it happens, a few hours later. He screams in anger.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Aberforth roars the moment he sees him.

Gellert Grindelwald scrunches his face as if he’s holding in a sigh or a comment on his lack of delicacy or whatever.

Aberforth really wants to punch him.

“Must you be so loud? I come in peace, obviously,” Grindelwald says.

“The only obvious thing about you is your insanity.” He doesn’t move or try to get help. He knows Grindelwald could incapacitate him before he has any chance to contact the authorities.

“That’s rude.”

“I’m only going to ask this one more time. What are you doing here? Albus is in Hogwarts.”

“I know. I came to see you — to speak with you. I’ve got… I’ve owed you an apology for many years.”

“If you think an apology will—”

“No. An apology will never ease your pain. It will not bring Ariana back. It will not fix what’s wrong, because it doesn’t change what I did. But apologies must be given when the consequences for our actions affect others badly. And in this case, that is an understatement.”

“It’s been over thirty-six years. What do you expect to accomplish by this?”

“Nothing.”

“Do not lie to me, I am not Albus, nor one of those idiots that fall for all your pretty words!”

“I am not lying. I know your opinion of me will never change. I know you will always hate me, and I deserve it. But,” he licks his lips and thinks of Albus’s eyes, so much kinder yet the exact shade of blue of Aberforth’s, “this still needed to be done.”

“So you can tell Albus you’ve done it.”

Gellert frowns. “No! This isn’t some tactic to get on your brother’s good side—”

“You’re already on his good side, I know that. What I don’t know is if you’re fucking him, and to be honest, I’d rather not knowing. Although I cannot think of another reason for you to be doing this.”

“I’m not here to get points, you, absolute dickhead. I’m doing it because I caused you pain, and you’re important to Albus, so I regret it. Deeply. I’m not going to tell him I came — and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t, either.”

“Have you truly lost your mind, goldilocks?”

“I lost my mind the moment I laid eyes on your brother. I love him, Aberforth. And he makes me a better man.”

“He made you a worse one, back then.”

“No,” Gellert shakes his head. “No, I was… I was terrified of losing him, so I hurt you, but he only gave me a reason to do it, not the strength. Not the… lack of restrain and total disregard for life. He taught me to be better. He makes me _want _to be better, to be worthy of him. Because he’s… he’s wonderful, Aberforth, and no one can compare. Certainly not me. But for some reason, Merlin knows why, he wants to keep me around. And I won’t throw away my shot this time. I can’t. I’m not going to do anything that could push him away.”

Aberforth rubs his face with a hand. “You, sappy bastard. You say so many pretty things. But you’re still out there, threatening the world, trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not trying to conquer the world, Aberforth. I’m trying to save it. And Albus understands that.”

“Merlin’s beard. He’s helping you, isn’t he? He’s actively on your side once more!”

“I don’t know what side he’s on.”

Aberforth knows that’s a lie. It must be, when the truth is so obvious to those Albus allows to see it. He’s never known if he’s aware or not that he always lets Aberforth in, but he’s convinced his brother wouldn’t keep such a thing from the insufferable bastard that impaled himself in his heart and refused to leave for thirty years.

“And anyway, I didn’t come here to tell you that. I didn’t come here to threaten you, or to try to convince you of anything. I simply came because I owed you an apology. Nothing more.”

“Well, I heard you. I’m not forgiving you, so get the fuck out of my face.”

Grindelwald nods. “Have a good life, Aberforth.”

“Fuck off.”

Thankfully, he does. But Aberforth doesn’t feel any better. Probably because he doesn’t feel like Grindelwald left empty-handed.

That damn robber.

♠

** _8 Rue Cannebière, Paris, France._ **

Gellert goes straight to his bedroom after his talk with Aberforth feeling exhausted for some reason. He didn’t expect it to go differently — if anything, he had imagined Aberforth would try to punch him, but he’s a lot more tired than he thought he would be. And there are still things he needs to do. He only has so many days before he leaves.

A major one is talking to Vinda. He doesn’t know why he’s been delaying it, and he figures there won’t be a better time, so he summons her to his private chambers. He’s never done it before, but she knows better than to ask any questions and doesn’t waste a second.

“There is a spying charm on the studio,” he informs her after he nods in greetings.

She frowns, probably wondering if Gellert was the one that put it there.

“It is from Riddle.”

He studies her carefully, confirming her surprise in both her body language and her thinly shielded mind. She’s fairly decent in Occlumancy, but Gellert knows how to slip in through tiny cracks. He doesn’t feel guilty. He’s mostly relieved she truly had no clue of it. The chance existed given she was the girl’s excuse to get in there on the first place, but he never once truly believed Vinda could’ve betrayed him. Still, he didn’t like the idea of informing her through a letter and finding a safe place to discuss the situation at length had proved to be too troublesome when it wasn’t yet necessary. Now that he’s leaving, it is necessary that at least she knows of it.

“Have you tried to break it yet? Is it a powerful one?”

Gellert purses his lips. “It is powerful, yes, but that’s not the reason I haven’t broke it. I’m actually planning on leaving it there at least until my return. It’s best he doesn’t know I discovered it.”

“Are you sure you want to leave it there?” she asks, looking uncertain.

Gellert nods. “Yes. Unless…” he clicks his tongue, “unless Albus decides otherwise. He’s the one who knows how to break the charm, anyway.”

“Alright.”

He understands her apprehension. It is an open for his enemy, after all. But it is necessary, because it is not for him to decide how and when to reveal Albus’s support of the cause. And if he wanted to keep it a secret forever, Gellert could only comply. Morgana, if Albus decided to fake his death and continue to live under some disguise to openly fight by his side, Gellert would happily comply, even if it meant not seeing those twinkling eyes of his in public ever again. It’s not even about love, but respect. And if there’s anyone on the world that has Gellert’s unwavering respect, that’s Albus Dumbledore.

♠

** _Madrid, Spain. 15 April 1936._ **

“Is that all, Mr. Graves?” Minister Torralba asks.

Percival purses his lips and leans back on his chair. He’s not nearly over, and if the man wishes to see him out before he can get all the answers he wants, he’ll have to remove him forcefully.

The Spanish Minister sighs, and his stance never turns more open, but he doesn’t kick Percival out, and that’s an improvement from his last meeting with the Spanish Head of Law Enforcement. Still, forty minutes later, he leaves the Ministry feeling like he didn’t accomplish anything at all.

“He’s hiding something,” Percival whispers as he enters the hotel suite with his small team.

“He’s freaking out because Grindelwald was here and he couldn’t do anything,” says Peter Abernathy, taking off his coat and then turning to receive Percival’s.

He hands it to the younger man distractedly and sighs. “Maybe.”

“We’re officially done here, though, aren’t we?” asks Laura Edgecombe, sitting down on the chair closest to the window, looking exhausted. She was the first on his list when Seraphina told Percival to make a team to take with him to Europe, for she’s always been overly competent, but he can see that the distance from her family is dawning on her. That, and the constant calls from her husband who never stayed alone with their five children before.

He nods. “We are.”

“Where shall we go now, sir?”

“Germany. We’re leaving in the morning. You can take the rest of the day off, maybe see the city if you want.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“I need a drink.”

“Or four!”

They all chuckle. They’re a nice group, and Percival is content with the choices he made, they are good company and competent investigators.

“Mr. Graves, don’t you want to join us? We’re going to a bar for a few drinks.”

“No,” he smiles as he shakes his head, “thanks for the offer, but I really shouldn’t. I need to start packing, and I’m tired.”

“Alright…”

They leave him alone, and that’s for the best. He cannot imagine the things he would confess if he dared to drink any alcohol and they asked about Ruby. And he knows they will. He knows they’ve noticed the one time he got a letter from Rubeus he locked himself in his bedroom to read it and didn’t go out until the next day. They are Aurors, after all, and should be able to read in between the lines, even if he’d rather they didn’t. In all honesty, he would’ve rather he didn’t give them anything to go by, but what else was he supposed to do? Get a letter with signed divorce papers from his soon-to-be ex-husband and then go out to dinner with his subordinates?

He still hasn’t sent them back. He hasn’t even signed them. He can’t. He doesn’t want a divorce, not while he’s overseas working his ass off. It’s not fair. It probably isn’t fair to Ruby either, but Percival has always been a bit selfish. Perhaps too selfish. Probably way too selfish, and that’s why his marriage failed. He rubs his face with his hands in an effort to appease the sting in his eye, and he’s relieved it works when he hears a knock on the door not a moment later. He takes a deep breath before he yells: “It’s open,” imagining one of his subordinates has something to tell him, but he frowns when he realizes that’s not the case. He suspects he’s not far off, though.

Closing the door behind herself, there stands Porpentina Goldstein, who once worked for him. He remembers her —and her troublemaker husband— well.

“Tina, hello. Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“The last time you saw me you told me there was something fishy about Malfoy.”

Percival nods. He remembers. “I did.” Percival studies the woman who was once a promising apprentice of his and asks: “What is it about him?”

“I told you I really don’t like that guy. He’s sponsoring the opposition but…” Tina bites her bottom lip, “there’s something that doesn’t fit. Also, he’s built his reputation on being a family man, but no one finds weird that in the middle of the Easter holiday, when his only son is back from school, he just ups and goes to Wales for apparently no reason, alone.”

Percival frowns. “Does he go there often?”

Tina sighs. “I can’t really tell. I was lucky to find out this one time. But I thought you should know, and I didn’t want to write you a letter. Also…”

“I’m listening.”

She swallows and nods. “Are you going to release your report on the British Ministry of Magic to the public?”

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, gesturing for Tina to take a seat on the sofa. “Do you want a drink, Tina?”

“I could have some coffee.”

He nods. “Yeah, me too. Glad to hear you haven’t been brainwashed into having tea at any time.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Not in a million years. They’re not going to get me.”

“Good.”

There’s a pause, while their coffees are ready. It’s not awkward, but they both know Percival is just stalling. Still, he doesn’t say a word until he’s halfway done with his mug.

“I can’t just do that. Release it to the public. The consequences… Tina, my report is _bad_.”

“I figured that much. Have you delivered it to the rightful authorities yet?”

“What rightful authorities, Fawley? Seraphina? Cottismore Croyne?”

“Well, yes. He certainly should be more involved, shouldn’t he? As the Supreme Mugwump?”

He sighs. “When I’m done, I’m supposed to inform Seraphina of my observations. Nothing more. It is her call what to do with that information, and she probably will take it to the ICW.”

She purses her lips. “I believe the people have a right to know.”

“I do, too. But I could lose my job, or even be arrested, for doing such a thing without permission. Maybe, after she’s read it… I’ll ask.”

He feels inadequate. He’s been feeling inadequate for a while, now, but he can ignore it when he’s interrogating people who are performing poorly at their jobs and endangering the entire magical community in the process. Tina isn’t one of those people. She’s competent and intelligent, and she has an outstanding moral compass. He doesn’t like disappointing her. He’s so tired of disappointing everyone.

He’s tempted to open a bottle of whiskey, but he settles for more coffee and a change in the subject.

♠

** _Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, England. 16 April 1936._ **

“Where’s Percy?” Harry asks, noticing he’s the only one missing from the table, when lunch is just about to be served in the Burrow.

“At work,” says Ron, rolling his eyes. “I swear, there’s something wrong with him.”

Molly slaps the back of his head. “There’s nothing wrong with being responsible and hard-working. Your brother is doing his best and climbing the ladder in the ministry at an impressive speed. You should be proud.”

“I am proud. I also think I couldn’t do it. Is that good enough?”

Molly rolls her eyes, looking a lot like her young son.

“Shut up and eat your food, Ron,” says George, giggling.

“Yes, or at least talk about something cool or interesting. Does that sound like Percy to you?”

“Hey, Harry was the one that asked!”

Molly glares at the twins for a moment before deciding to ignore them.

“Alright, let’s talk about something more interesting. Grindelwald’s last rally, how about that? Did any of you know the guy could speak Spanish?”

Ginny nods. “I read somewhere that he’s fluent in like, a dozen languages.”

“Cool,” says Fred, earning a disapproving look from his mum and Ron.

“I really don’t want to hear more about that guy,” begs Ella, face twisting with discomfort. “It’s all my mum’s been talking about lately. Her brother is way too interested — way too loud about his support, and she’s been trying to excuse it.”

George gives her a sympathetic smile and passes his arm over her shoulders, pressing her to his side and running his hand up and down her arm reassuringly. She fully leans against him, and Harry in turn notices how Ron tenses by his side. He gets the strange impression that Ron is slightly jealous, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. But then again, Hermione is all the way in Spain, and he probably misses her. Harry knows he certainly misses Draco, and the long silence is wearing him off. He can almost understand the reasoning behind it, and it only makes his enthusiasm louder when he finally gets a letter from Draco that afternoon, mere minutes after his return home. He reads it in thirty seconds and then reads it again, just to be sure he got it right, lips stretched wide on a goofy smile and it’s a small mercy no one is around to see it. He barely takes the time to yell that he’s going out on his way down the stairs, and his parents aren’t fast enough to ask him anything before he vanishes through the chimney, repeating the address written on the letter.

He suspects something must have happened that pushed Draco into inviting him, but he doesn’t want to press for answers that may or may not come up naturally in the conversation, if he’s sly enough, so he doesn’t let those concerns cloud his excitement. And when he finally sees Draco, waiting for him sitting on a divan right in front of the chimney, in what looks like a library, he just smiles and hurries to join him there, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him hello.

“I was sure I wouldn’t be able to see you!” he confesses, between one kiss and another. “I was so sad! Honestly, the mere thought of two weeks without seeing you…!”

“Two weeks of not snogging me, you mean,” Draco mumbles, although his hands aren’t wasting any time and they already found their way under Harry’s shirt.

“Torture!” Harry insists.

Draco snorts. “You really are incorrigible, aren’t you?”

Harry beams, but he pauses enough to take off his shirt, smugly noticing the way Draco’s eyes follow his every move hungrily. “I mean, I could leave if you want to,” he suggests.

Draco rolls his eyes and pushes Harry on his back. “You could, of course, I’m not going to stop you.”

Harry giggles. “Really? Because I feel like you’re stopping me right now.”

Draco hums and shakes his head in a negative. “No, no, you can just leave any minute.”

“Through that same chimney, right? Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone see me. Where am I, though?”

“You’re at my house. And don’t worry, there’s no one else here. I mean, besides the house-elves, that is.”

“Ah.” That shocks him a little, but he doesn’t ask. Not yet, anyway. He figures they have time. Maybe they don’t, but Draco’s hands and lips make sure he doesn’t have the mind to worry about anything else other than his own erection trapped in his pants.

He is a teenager, after all. And the world may be going to hell, his boyfriend may have a dysfunctional family and a crazy father that is way too invested in politics, but when they are touching like that, a part of him knows that what he’s doing is jut as distracting for the blond, and for a little while, that can be enough.

♠

** _Metropolitan Borough of St Marylebone, London, England. 17 April 1936._ **

Jacob Kowalski’s bakery in Muggle London became, completely by chance, a place where many wizards and witches just happened to visit. He suspects some of his products, which may —do— look like magical creatures, combined with the good taste, may push those that wander inside to return a second, and maybe even a third time, and that they could tell one or two people about it, but he never expected that over half of his faithful clientele would consist of wizards. Sure, he was dating a witch at the time he opened it, so a couple of wizards coming weren’t a surprise, but after many years, it still baffles him every time a stranger —and some not so strangers, after stopping by every day for a while— wearing robes that look like a Halloween costume enters. Maybe he would’ve grown used to them eventually if Queenie ever wore anything like that at home, but she didn’t.

Maybe she does now. He couldn’t tell. He hasn’t seen her in months. And he misses her. God, he misses her like crazy. And the wizard clients won’t stop coming! Some he welcomes, of course. Some are his friends, not just Queenie’s, like Newt and even Tina, but those he doesn’t know just keep breaking his heart, even if it doesn’t make sense; the handsome men make him wonder if she moved on, the mothers with their children make him think of the future they almost had, a future he pushed away out of fear, and the women, well, they just remind him of her. No one compares, of course, but they still make him think of her. When Tina finds him in a bad mood, she usually leaves, convinced that she can only make it worse, but sometimes she stays, sometimes she takes over the register machine and he can just sit and be miserable in peace, and he’s truly grateful for this times. Truly. It only makes him uncomfortable when, on lazy shifts, wizards she knows stop by just to chat and he ends up working anyway, distractedly listening to more of those words that only make sense in the world Queenie belongs to, and he does not. But some visitors he accepts, especially those that buy things. Like Leta Lestrange. She always buys a lot of stuff, especially when she’s on her way to see her girlfriend.

“Hey, Leta,” Tina greets her, and doesn’t even try to look apologetic as she collects he cup of coffee and walks away from the counter to go talk to her while the other woman picks out the pastries she’ll take.

Jacob isn’t even mad. He knows money is coming, at least. Even if he’ll have to send Tina or Newt to Gringotts to exchange it for regular money.

Maybe if he stopped accepting Galleons his wizarding clientele would reduce. He’s not going to check, though. It’s thanks to them that he can afford his nice apartment.

“Thanks for that tip you gave Newt about Malfoy,” Tina tells Leta, distractedly resting an elbow on the edge of a basket that almost falls to the ground, but Leta wordlessly catches it. “I told Mr. Graves, and he’s intrigued. Do you think you’ll be able to tell me if he goes again in the future?”

“Yes,” says Leta, picking up some scones she hates, but she never fails to bring to her dates. “I probably can tell you when he went in the past, too, if I ask.”

Tina pours way more coffee on her mug as she refills it, but she barely notices, eyes widened and on Leta. “Really? Oh, please! That would be really useful!”

Leta nods. She’s all too happy to oblige, but both Tina and Jacob don’t think any of it, because she’s always happy when she stops by before going to see her girlfriend. She can’t help it, she was never too lucky with love before — although she couldn’t say she’s _lucky _even now. Sure, for once there isn’t a terrible disparity regarding the intensity of their feelings, but the fact remains that her girlfriend, who she loves very much, is unhappily married. But she hopes that at least when they’re together, some of that bitterness and pain can go away. She hopes she helps, somehow.

The moment she arrives at their meeting place, Leta smiles. The object of her affections is, as usual, utterly engrossed by the words on the page and doesn’t notice her. Leta doesn’t mind. She adores the small shiver that goes down the blonde’s spine the moment she rests her chin on her shoulder and says: “Hello.”

Narcissa twists her neck slightly; her smile is petite, but her eyes sparkle and that’s all Leta needs to know she can press their lips together and will be well received.

“Hi,” Narcissa says once they’ve separated. “You’re late.”

“Sorry.” She offers her bag filled with pastries as an apology, the scones she detests and Narcissa adores among them, and she knows she will be forgiven.

She just hopes she can convince Narcissa to wait until she’s had enough of her kisses to eat those horrible things. She’s pretty optimistic about it. She knows she can be very convincing when she really tries.

♠

** _Istanbul, Turkey. 20 April 1936._ **

He represses a smile when he overhears an animated conversation about politics and the real threat that muggles represent for the magical community between a group of five young men. Gellert almost wishes to join the conversation, but he has more than one reason not to — his anonymity, for starters.

In addition, learning a language without ever hearing a native speak isn’t nearly an optimal way to do it, and as he first steps in Istanbul, Gellert simply doesn’t dare to try his hand in Turkish. He will have time, he knows, after he meets with Ayşa, who has been his main teacher so far, after he decided to make something of his time in Nurmengard by learning one or seven more languages. He never understood why he was allowed to receive letters and not howlers, but then again, thirty years is a long time, and he studied the phonetics thoroughly. He’s confident in his abilities; he has a good ear and has always been good with accents —in fact, he’s eager to try out his Russian for he’s certain his accent is _on point—_, but if he’s going to charm a crowd, he needs another person’s confirmation.

Ayşa is young, but not so young that she couldn’t vote on the last election — which she did proudly. She started writing to him in 1923, shortly after she finished school and started her own private studies on the Dark Arts.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you, sir,” she greets him in English.

“_I am very pleased to meet you, Ayşa,_” he answers in Turkish, and hides his own reaction after her face transforms with delight.

“_No accent! _Your pronunciation is flawless, sir! I am impressed. You definitely ought to give your speech in Turkish. They’re going to love you, I assure you.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Oh, I am not, and you know that,” she winks an eye at him. “Come now, we have a lot to talk about. Would you like to see the city or have lunch first?”

He takes a moment to decide, although if he’s honest, his stomach does it for him. But that’s alright, it’s always easier to talk sitting by a table instead of walking around. And he wants to talk. He also wants to try his luck at ordering his own food.

He knows he is good with languages. He first realized it back in Durmstrang, when he decided learning Latin would be a useful skill to have and then tried to have a fluent conversation with the Charms professor, but the man, in spite of speaking the language for years, wasn’t fast enough to follow Gellert. He had a good ear and a versatile tongue. That, and he soaked up compliments like a sponge. People were reluctant to praise his abilities for the Dark Arts, but they never hesitated to tell him how subtle his accent was and give further encouragements. That was how he ended up speaking —fluently— four languages before he turned seventeen. Still, no matter how confident he is in his own skills, he still wants to confirm he’s competent enough to give a full speech, and be eloquent enough, in Turkish. He’s having a small rally in four days, and he’s the most excited he’s been about having one in a long time. It’s even more special than the one he had after his escape, because he’s never personally recruited anyone in this part of the world, and he’s going to be almost as alone as he’s ever been, at least since he was seventeen. It was a deliberate, well-thought choice, of course, but it still pumps adrenaline down his veins each time he remembers it.

His main reason to come here alone is that he needs to gather followers who only know _him_. Movements not only need a visible face and name to represent them for familiarity, they also need it to stay true to one goal. He knows what he stands for, but he’s the only one who does, and the people that will flood the streets in the future willing to change the way everything works shall be doing it for him, not for some stranger that jumped on the stage next to him and attached himself to what he represents. There are, of course, a few followers he would trust with continuing his legacy if the situation required it, but they’re the kind who wouldn’t do it unless it’s necessary, like Albus.

He hasn’t been away for more than two days, but he misses Albus, hugely. He’s gotten spoiled these past few months, for never before he had him so often so near, so ready to give him his unwavering attention, not after their abrupt separation in 1899. He knows that if he writes, he will shortly get an answer, but it isn’t the same, and he’s busy. They both are, surely, but Gellert seriously needs to start focusing on what brought him to Istanbul and what he plans to accomplish. After all, Albus isn’t even openly a part of his movement, despite being Gellert’s main advisor.

Those that are proud to fight for his cause with strong conviction deserve his attention, now. He left Vinda in charge in Paris, and he sent Krafft to Denmark; he trusts enough in them to know they’re going to do their part well. Nagel and MacDuff tried not to show that their own assignment, keeping an eye on Riddle, made them nervous, and he is almost confident they won’t be swayed against him. They’ve all been by his side since the very beginning in a bar in Paris in September of 1899, before he even had the Elder Wand with him and had only recently turned seventeen. All except from Vinda, who was his age, had been older than him. All had had their own issues and responsibilities and different ideologies, but they swore their loyalty to him nevertheless that night and proved it time and time again over the course of thirty-six years. They may not be as brilliant as Albus, but they won’t turn their back on him over someone like Riddle, and they’ll always be willing to do what needs to be done. The least he can do is not let them see he’s distracted so often.

He does not owe Ayşa the same courtesy, although he tries anyway, and their conversation over their meal, in Turkish, is interesting enough that he only thinks of Albus about twenty times.

It is progress.

♠

** _Library, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 21 April 1936._ **

Two days into school, back from the holidays, it’s still hard for Hermione to really focus. The woman’s smile haunts her almost just as badly as Grindelwald’s words, and the possibilities that the future holds are simply too big for her to think of anything else. It’s all so real. She loves school, and she loves learning, but she also knows that the skills they teach her at Hogwarts are a mere fraction of what the real world will ask from her once she starts working. And if she truly wants to improve the world, well, it feels more and more like she could learn a lot more just by listening to Grindelwald captivate the people around him while exposing everything that’s wrong, than at school, where real problematics are pushed aside in favour of simple puzzles and riddles.

She turns the card around when no one is looking, still trying to figure out exactly how it works. She has speculated a lot, but she has no way of confirming any of her theories without raising suspicion in at least one of her teachers, thus all she can do is stare at it in her free time.

“Hermione? What are you doing?” Harry, who had been sitting by her side on the library, working on his own essay, is looking at her, mildly concerned. He’d need to raise his head to see what she’s doing, but he must have noticed she stopped writing, and her textbook is still closed.

She hides the card again under her parchment with her Transfiguration essay. “Nothing,” she says, knowing her lie is terrible, but before Harry could press for details, Ron sits down on her other side with a loud sigh, and changes the subject by complaining about the last Quidditch practice and his sore muscles, which he assures must be worse than Harry's because he hasn't been hit nearly as much as him lately. She could kiss him. It takes her a second to realize that, really, she _could_. They’re together now. She feels her face turning warm, but she still does it, as soon as his story is over. The look on his face when they separate still sends butterflies flying all over her stomach, every time.

“What was that for?” he asks.

She shrugs one shoulder. “I just remembered I could.”

A large beam stretches his lips, and he presses his lips against hers one more time, tenderly.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed him. She wishes she could take him with her, everywhere she goes, in the future. But the future is an uncertain thing, and before she can show her inner turmoil, she opens her textbook and looks for the page that will help her write her essay, even though she already memorized it.

“You haven’t said anything about your holiday,” says Ron, collecting ink and a quill from his satchel. “How was it?”

She deliberately doesn’t raise her head from her book. She hums. “Cool, I guess. The weather was nice. I swam a lot.”

“Where did you go, again?” asks Harry.

“Spain.”

“Barcelona,” adds Ron with a frown, turning his chair so he can face her. “Did you hear anything about Grindelwald?”

She closes her book abruptly and stands up. “No. Sorry, I just realized I forgot something in my room. I’ll be right back.”

She leaves without another word, and Ron leaves short after, not even looking in Harry’s direction, but Harry can’t blame him. Besides, it’s always best to just let him fume alone, otherwise he ends up getting yelled at. He sighs and tries to focus back on his essay. He enjoyed the few days in which he had everything done, but merely a day back from the holidays they already have tons of new assignments. He sincerely believes it’s plain mean, but the sooner he gets it all done, the sooner he can sneak out to meet Draco without a guilty conscience.

“Hey, what’s going on with Granger?” asks Draco, coming out of nowhere and sitting down on the chair that she was using just a minute before.

Harry frowns. “Nothing.”

Draco arches one eyebrow. “I gather it’s a secret.”

“It’s just none of your business, Draco.” He has no idea _what_ it is, but if Draco wants to keep their relationship a secret from everyone, then Harry is at least keeping his friends’ business a secret from him.

“Then it is something.”

“I— you already had decided that!”

Draco shrugs. “Yeah, but you confirmed it.”

That, he did. He groans, looks around to make sure no one is around, and says: “I don’t know what it is. Honest. And I also don’t know what this is. Think you can help?” he points at the third question he’s supposed to answer in his essay for Transfiguration.

Draco doesn’t seem too excited, but he obliges. He’s a good teacher, although he would be a lot better if he wasn’t so attractive. Harry keeps getting lost in his lips. But they finish before dinner, and then he pretends he does not, so they can make out for a while. And maybe he’s a terrible friend for it, but he forgets all about Ron and Hermione.

♠

**_Istanbul, Turkey. 24 April 1936._ **

He finishes his speech in Istanbul feeling utterly satisfied, and he even takes a second to watch the mass of strangers in front of him before he leaves.

It is comforting to see that a wired crowd is the same in every corner of the world, but by far the most comforting part is knowing that he still can do it. Move multitudes, shock hundreds into action. Convince them with nothing but rhetoric and the right face expressions that what he’s saying makes sense, and that the world needs to be changed. That the world _can _be changed, if they decide to follow him.

And he can do it alone, without a large team of people encouraging the spectators with their solid support and the strength of numbers.

Now he’s rather familiar with the face he sees in the mirror, he’s no longer the stranger he had become in the decades of imprisonment. And he has got to admit that he’s happy, knowing that thousands outside recognize that face as the one of a leader that they _want_ to follow. He misses Albus like crazy, yes, but all he does, he does it for the greater good, and it’s worth it. And he knows even the distance will be worth it, in the end. It must be.

A day later, he leaves the city behind to keep moving through the country. He’s not planning on having another rally soon, but to speak with the Minister of Magic in Ankara. Not yet, though. He’s going to take his time to get there, let the news of his speech in Istanbul go around first, and give them time to prepare and even try to arrest him, if they really want to. When he told Ayşa his plan she’d been hesitant, and he told her she could stay behind, that it could be useful even, for he trusted him far more than the young boy they were leaving in charge of enlisting those that had been interested in his speech, but in the end, she couldn’t be swayed. She wants to go with him, regardless of the danger, and he appreciates that.

That doesn’t mean he wants to spend every waking moment with her, so when he sees his chance to have some alone time, he takes it. And then he takes even more. He almost tried to get her to meet with him in Kutahya, but Bursa is still good. He’s going to take his time in Mudanya anyway.

He’d made the decision out of pure instinct, taking the ship, but as he stares into the Sea of Marmara, he’s grateful he did. The trip isn’t long, and he’s not on a schedule. He told Ayşa he’s taking the weekend to see the sights, and that is his intention. To an extent.

He also is curious and just wants to see the people. It’s funny how they’re the same everywhere, at the end. Cultures may change, but people don’t, not really. And that’s fascinating. It’s also motivating. He knows it means that, given the right time and effort, they will resonate with his message. Everywhere.

As he walks by the coast, he realizes that people aren’t the only ones that remain the same around the world. Some animals do, too. And when he comes across a bakery, he gets something for himself and some bread for the birds outside. He doesn’t even mind that he has to use his hands to do all the work — his wand is comfortably hidden away in his jacket, and he intends to leave it there for as long as he’s outside. There are ducks and pigeons and other birds he doesn’t recognize, and they’re the same as they always were in Austria, in England, and in France. It is oddly comforting, as well. Up until a goose walks up to him with a strange determination in its eyes.

Geese have teeth, he knows. He does not like them. He tries throwing some bread at it, but the large bird ignores it completely. The goose just stares at him like it knows something that he doesn’t. It’s irrationally infuriating, and he’s certain Albus would find it charming. He would probably laugh at him, too, and that reduces his annoyance quickly. It also makes him a little sad. He wants to share these tiny moments with Albus, too, and it kills him that they can’t. He runs out of bread soon enough, and he leaves quickly, suspecting the birds will not be too happy with him now that he has nothing to offer.

He stops outside a muggle bookstore and smiles. It’s still too early for lunch, he has time to kill, and he figures falling asleep will remain a challenge for a few more days now that he’s gotten so used to Albus using him as a pillow, but books could help. At the very least, they should keep him entertained and away from ink and blank paper.

He ends up buying fifteen different romance novels, and he swears it’s all Albus’s fault. But he smiles as he does it, and he starts reading one as soon as he’s back at his hotel. It’s good practice and a great mental exercise, reading in another language. It also takes him back to a bittersweet time filled with the happiest memories he made during the worst years of his life, back when he didn’t have anything, when he couldn’t see anyone, and somehow Albus still managed to keep him company at least once a year, for Valentine’s Day. He stops himself from writing to Albus, and when he wants to feel him close, he simply opens a book.

♠

** _Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland. 27 April 1936._ **

Monday mornings were never Albus’s favourites, and in the late months, they had turned in the worst of the week, for they came after Sundays, which were often delightful.

His last Sunday was not delightful, so really there’s no reason for him to feel so miserable on Monday morning, but he still does, and he has no intention of going to breakfast. His first class of the day isn’t until eleven anyway, and he has no intention of getting up before nine.

Or that was the plan. However, just ten minutes short of the beginning of breakfast, there’s a knock on his door. He considers ignoring it, but after they try a second time, however shyly, Albus decides he could at least pretend he’s a good teacher and answer.

His bad mood softens when he realizes who was knocking, though. “Harry?” he asks, pleasantly surprised.

“Professor!” He seems surprised to see him, despite the fact he was the one that knocked on his door. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here, but I wanted to try. You were in school last night, so…”

The professor seems to be amused by his logic, though the red on the tips of his ears suggest that he’s also a tiny bit embarrassed.

“Yes. And I should be around here more often now, for a while at least. My…” he hesitates, “partner is on a trip abroad.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. Anyway, come in, come in. What did you want to tell me? Is it long? I’m going to be on my office most of the afternoon, you see, so if you want, you could always come after class.”

Harry seems to be quite relieved to hear that, and his stomach makes sure to declare loudly why that is.

Albus chuckles, feeling a little bad for the boy’s bright blushing. “Go get breakfast, Harry. I’ll be waiting for you in the afternoon.”

Harry nods, grinning sheepishly. “Thanks, professor.”

Albus waves a hand and closes the door as soon as Harry turns, for he still has no intention of going for breakfast. It’s pathetic, he knows, but he goes back to bed nevertheless, and only wonders once what may be that Harry wants to ask — he figures it’s something related to the last assignment.

With Gellert gone, he doesn’t have a reason to leave the school as soon as his lessons are over, but it’s strange to have time. It’s unfair how fast one gets used to things when they’ve changed for the better. Albus didn’t have anywhere to go for decades but after barely two months, the idea of staying is unpleasant. Hogwarts was his home for so long, but Albus isn’t sure he can tell when exactly Gellert stole that place for himself. He’s read many times that _home _isn’t a place, but a feeling. It can be wherever one feels the safest. And sometimes, that isn’t a building, but people. Maybe even for most people it is that way, if only they do not realize it. But a younger Albus always disagreed with it. Because he loved being at Hogwarts, but he loved his mother as well. And the idea of him subconsciously choosing a cold old castle over the woman that gave him life was one he refused to believe.

Then he met Gellert and he was robbed of all conviction, for the opposite was then proved.

Nowadays, he’s fifty-four and he has no doubt where he feels safest, albeit it may not make sense. At Hogwarts he’s respected, admired, and liked. He’s had the same room for ages and he’s surrounded by people he esteems. Nothing could ever harm him, at Hogwarts. Whereas Gellert is a fugitive, perhaps too keen and fond of the dark arts for comfort, and the priority of every authority in Magical Europe. And yet, at his side is where Albus feels best. Wherever Gellert goes, Albus’s happiness will follow. And with Gellert gone, his world darkens, just a little. He wishes it wouldn’t. He was once proud of his independence, but that was forever ago, in a time where he hadn’t yet found a company that could provide a conversation richer than his own mind. He then would spend three decades trying to get that independence back, alas he failed miserably. The silences he once found comforting turned oppressive as the robber was no longer there to keep him company.

Loneliness became his primary companion the first time Gellert left. And when he could no longer stand it, he succumbed to his weakness and read every single letter Gellert ever wrote to him. And then he started writing back. Every time the silence has been too much, Albus would write to Gellert. And many times he wouldn’t even send the letters — but he always knew he could, and he knew Gellert would do the same, there in his terrible cell, and Albus would feel a little less lonely.

He knows Fawkes could try and find him, but Albus isn’t going to risk it. He’s decided not to write to Gellert at all while he’s away. Both for their safety and for their strength, for Albus knows that nowadays he isn’t strong enough to stay away from the man he loves for long, not if he knows exactly where to find him.

Gellert’s flat in Paris, for a little while, had been just that. A place where he knew he would find happiness. Gellert’s room had started to feel more like a home than his bedroom at Hogwarts ever did, which by now he barely recognizes. He vaguely remembers the countless afternoons he’s spent there, but he doesn’t wish to fall back into that routine. He just wants to go to Gellert. He misses him like crazy and he’s barely been gone for a week. But Albus is weak. He’s naïve and pretentious, and he’s a man in love. He can hardly remember a time when he wasn’t in love with Gellert Grindelwald, but everything is far more intense now — because now it is _real_. It’s no longer a hazy summer that might as well have been a dream. Now they’ve got a routine; they’ve got their furniture and their favourite cups, their favourite bakery and a side on their bed; they’ve even been to dinners with other couples. _They’re_ real. There’s no denying what they are, and no one can argue about the authenticity of their feelings.

Albus can hardly trust himself, but he trusts Gellert. And he misses him. He misses him like crazy.

♠

** _Common room. Twelve hours later._ **

With the library overwhelmingly full for a Monday, Hermione decides to do her reading in the common room that afternoon, and she’s mostly comfortable with her choice. She’s barely interrupted twice in two hours, three if she counts the time Harry entered and waved a hand at her before going straight to his dormitory without saying a word, noticing the large pile of books by her side. He looked happy, so she figures Dumbledore really had time for him and helped him figure out the right way to perform the spell he’d been struggling with. She’s so relaxed it’s no wonder she gets lost on her mind once more, thinking back to the rumours about Grindelwald appearing in Istanbul. No official articles have been posted about it, and her card certainly didn’t tell her anything, but it is possible that he intended it that way — that his rally was meant for people in Turkey, only. She’s so out of it, that it takes Ron to touch her arm for her to notice him, and she knows that means he must have cleared his throat loudly at least four times before.

“Oh, hey Ronald. Sorry, I was… distracted.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “I noticed.” He nods towards the book on her lap. “What are you reading?”

She forgot about it so long ago that she simply raises it for him to read the title on the cover, hoping he won’t notice she doesn’t know either.

“Ah. Well, anyway, the Quidditch pitch is empty and I was wondering if you’d mind coming with me? I’d like to show you something.”

Her face falls, because she knows there’s just no way she’ll pay the attention he deserves if she goes. She’s barely been paying attention in class, but outside? When it’s so dark and windy? She shakes her hand, giving him the most apologetic look she can muster. “Sorry…”

Ron stares at her in a way that makes her stomach turn, but he doesn’t accuse her of anything like she expects him to. He simply sighs and stands up.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. Have fun with your books,” he mumbles.

“Thank you,” she whispers, holding his wrist before he leaves. “I promise we’ll do something tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, Hermione. Really.”

She knows it’s not. She sees it all over his face, and it _hurts_. She can almost see him drifting away without a word and she cannot stand it. But she doesn’t know what to do about it. She cannot tell him. He would never understand. He wouldn’t—

“Just,” he says when he’s almost at the door, “I’d like listening some more about what you did with your parents. Let me know when you’ve got the time.”

She bites her bottom lip, dozens of memories, old and new, from all those times Ronald has surprised her, jump to her mind. They light a spark of hope that could end up burning everything if she’s not careful, but it’s enough to push her to confess:

“I did something dumb.”

Ron frowns. “What?”

“During the holidays. I…” she lowers her eyes, “I went to Grindelwald’s rally.”

“You what?!”

“It was an accident! I mean, a complete coincidence. I was right there! I had to see it. I had to hear him again, I…” she runs her hands through her wild hair and absentmindedly starts braiding it on her side, “to find a way to stop him, you know? That’s what I’ve been thinking of, lately. I believe I could go to the next one, and—”

“What? No! You can’t do that!”

“Ronald…”

She’s insane. Or cursed. Or maybe both. He shakes his head and takes a step back, trying to come up with a solution, but he comes up with nothing. Normally, he would ask Hermione for help, but he can’t do it this time. So he goes for the second best option in his mind—which probably wouldn’t be anybody else’s second best, but Ron can be a sensitive fool sometimes, and he forgets that he’s friends with a few Ravenclaws.

“Harry, come here mate, I need your help,” he tells his friend, standing by the door of their room.

“Sure,” says Harry, turning to see him from where he’s lying on the bed, reading a textbook. “Let me just—”

“No,” Ron shakes his head and throws him a tie that’s within reach. “You can use that as a bookmark. Come on! It has to be now.”

“Oh.” Harry looks stunned, but he closes his textbook around the tie and stands up anyway. “Alright. What is it?” He mumbles as he follows Ron down the stairs and into the common room, where Hermione is waiting, looking troubled.

“You need to tell her she’s insane.” He points at Hermione with his thumb.

Harry stares at them both wide-eyed, taken aback. “What?”

“She went to Grindelwald’s rally and is thinking of going to the next!”

“I’m just trying to figure out a way to stop him!”

“Well, that’s not your responsibility! That, that’s for the Aurors and politicians to figure out, or to people like Dumbledore, right Harry?” He turns to look at his friend, hoping to find some support there, but instead of the vocal, fierce backing he’s expecting to see, all he gets is a pale, silent statue. “Mate? Come on, you’ve got to stand with me on this.”

“What’s on your mind, Harry?” Hermione asks, eyes narrowing and leaning forward just an inch, but enough to tell Ron that she’s hoping he’s on her side.

He just opens his mouth in indignation, but no sound comes out. He just hopes Harry has a good excuse to decide that’s the time to stand to the side on an argument.

“I know something, but I promised not to tell anyone,” Harry whispers, eyes anxiously studying their surroundings.

Hermione frowns. “Is it important? Could people be in danger if you didn’t tell?”

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, recovering some of his conviction. He trusts Dumbledore. No matter what, he doesn’t believe Dumbledore would deliberately put others in danger. He doesn’t believe it. Dumbledore is _good_.

Bloody brilliant, is what he is. And likely an old friend of a mass murderer who’s trying to…

What was it he said? Change the world for the better? For the greater good?

“It could mean that, maybe this time, Dumbledore will be on Grindelwald’s side.”

Hermione gasps, and Ronald says: “No way! Are you serious?”

“That’s just a possibility. It’s not a fact,” he explains, feeling irresponsible, He doesn’t regret it, though. He needs to discuss his suppositions with _someone _that isn’t the man himself, but he’s not going to break his promise.

“I lied,” Hermione whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t go to the rally to try and find a way to stop him, I… I just wanted to listen to him again. See if it was really just plain manipulation or if there was something more, something real to his fight.”

“And what did you conclude?” asks Harry, heart racing at mad speed.

Next to him, Ron stares at them both as if they were crazy.

She gulps. “Honestly? I kind of really like what he’s selling.”

“Hermione!”

“Look, there’s going to be another rally eventually,” she bites her bottom lip and passes her eyes from one to the other a few times, “and I want you guys to come with me.”

“Are you mental?” asks Ron. “If he managed to buy _you_, we don’t stand a chance!”

“Give yourself a little more credit, Ronald.”

“I want to go,” says Harry.

“Bollocks,” Ron whines, running a hand through his hair and passing his eyes from one crazy person to the other. He _knows _it is a bad idea. He knows the mere idea of going to one could get them in trouble with the law. And he knows Grindelwald is the bad guy.

He sighs. “If I’m sleeping, don’t wake me. Otherwise…” he rubs his face with a hand and refuses to meet their eyes, “count me in, I guess.”

He was secretly hoping at least one of them would try to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but he knows that battle is lost when Hermione throws her arms around his neck in both, relief and excitement. And he can’t bring himself to regret it, even if he still thinks it’s a mistake. Probably. Maybe.

Hermione kisses him, and he smiles.

Maybe it is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not making any promises, but I'll do my best to post the next chapter in the few days.
> 
> Also, yes, the title comes from Think of Me, the first song in The Phantom of the Opera, which is supposed to be a song inside an opera they're performing. That opera is 'Hannibal', which is what Albus and Gellert went to see in Paris, before they met the French Minister of Magic. Just a little trivia for you :)
> 
> If anybody wants to make me suffer a little bit because of the long wait, I'm literally one dare away from recording myself singing the damn song (or at least a part of it, because the finale just kills me), so you can ask for that, guaranteeing some coughing and my public humiliation. You know, because it's fun.


End file.
